HARRIS   COLLECTION 

OF 

American  Poetry 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  THE  GIFT  OF 

Samuel  Coffin  iBastman,  iBsq, 

OF  THE    CLASS  OF   1857 


THE  AMULET, 


i^  as^  w 
l^  m>  j^ 


MT. 


OTIS.  BROADERS  Sc  Co. 


liniI>(D€(DXIL"yKc 


THE 

4' 


AMULET. 


CPIRISTMAS  AND   NEW   YEAR'S   PRESENT 


MDCCCXLVI. 


WrXII      NINF.      BF,  AtJTIFUr,      STKF.T,      FXOR A VINGS. 


BOSTON : 

OTIS,  BROADERS  &.  COMPANY 

1846. 


AYll 
A^7 


BOSTON  ; 
PRr)V7Ep    PV    L.  II.  BRIDGHAM, 

tf  ATiR  ;sXreev. 


CONTENTS. 


Lines  addressed  to  a  Bridesmaid 9 

Departure  and  Return 11 

Parting  Words 27 

An  Adventure  with  an  American 28 

Faries'  Dance  by  Moonlight 53 

Recollections    .........  56 

The  Influence  of  Example           ......  57 

The  Stars 66 

To  an  Absent  Friend 68 

Halloran  the  Pedler 70 

Stanzas  on  Friendship 101 

The  Sunshine 103 

The  Politician  of  Podunk 105 

Little  Children 108 

Nicholas  Dunks,  or  Fried  Mackerel  for  Dinner                     .  110 

The  Old  Arm  Chair 142 

Forget  Thee  ? 144 

Perpetual  Adoration 145 

Hope 146 

Winter 147 

The  Welcome  Back 148 

Poor  Will  Newbery 149 

Lines  to  Eleanor 180 

Lines  to  a  Young  Lady  on  her  Marriage          .         .         •  181 


ivu'l^Ol 


VI  CONTEfJTS- 

A  Home  in  the  Heart •       .        .183 

Say,  oh  say,  you  love  me 184 

Lady  Alda's  Dream 185 

A  Storm 187 

Retribution 189 

The  Musical  Box -214 

Come  Home  ! 216 

Tlie  Merry  Heart 218 

An  Incident  Versified 220 

The  Italian  Exile 222 

Stanzas 224 

The  Keepsake 225 

The  Old  Mill 227 

The  Lansbys  of  Lansby  Hall 228 

Early  Days 257 

The  Near  Sighted  Lover 259 

The  Honest  Miller 269 

The  Weary  Watcher 271 

A  Legend  of  Christmas  JGve 273 

My  Father's  House 281 

Romance  in  Real  Life 283 

Jenny  and  the  Watch 290 

Stanzas  for  Evening 295 


LIST  OP  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Subject. 

"   1.   The  Bridesmaid. 
^  2.  Vignette  and  Title. 
-f  3.   The  Fairies. 
•^  4.  The  Politician. 
^5.   The  Disguise. 
s/  6.   The  Bride. 

V  7.   The  Old  Mill. 
"^  8.  The  Nibble. 

•  9.  The  Weary  Watcher, 


Engravers. 

W.  H.  Mote. 

J.  F.  E.  Prudhomine. 

O.  Pelton. 

O.  PeJton. 

■T.  F.  E.  Prudhomme. 

■f.  Andrews. 

R.  Brandard. 

O.  Pelton. 

W.  H.  Mote. 


PaiiUew. 


W.  Boxall. 

E.  T.  Paris. 

E.  T.  Paris. 

53 

H.  Liversege. 

105 

J.  G.  Chapman. 
W.  E.  West. 

144 
181 

C.  Stanfield. 

227 

J.  G.  Chapman. 

257 

F.  Stone. 

271 

LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  BRIDESMAID. 


BY    HER    GROOMSMAN. 


Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 
Makes  another,  soon  or  late  ; 

Never  yet  was  any  marriage 
Entered  in  the  book  of  Fate, 

But  the  names  were  also  written 
Of  the  patient  pair  that  wait. 

Blessings  then  upon  the  morning 
When  ray  friend,  with  fondest  look, 

By  the  solemn  rites'  permission. 
To  himself  his  mistress  took. 

And  the  Destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

While  the  priest  fulfilled  his  ofiicc. 
Still  the  ground  the  lovers  eyed, 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  bride, 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins 
Who  were  waitingr  at  her  side. 


10  LINES    TO    A    BRIDESMAID. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside  her, 
One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair, 

But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other, 
Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair ; 

Neither  dark  nor  fair  I  call  her, 
Yet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 

While  her  groomsman  —  shall  I  own  it  ? 

Yes,  to  thee,  and  only  thee  — 
Gazed  upon  this  dark-eyed  maiden 

Who  was  fairest  of  the  three. 
Thus  he  thought :  "  How  blest  the  bridal 

Where  the  bride  were  such  as  she  !  " 

Then  I  mused  upon  the  adage, 
Till  my  wisdom  was  perplexed, 

And  I  wondered,  as  the  churchman 
Dwelt  upon  his  holy  text. 

Which  of  all  who  heard  his  lesson 
Should  require  the  service  next. 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion 

For  the  flowers,  the  feast,  the  wine  ? 

Thine  perchance,  my  dearest  lady, 
Or,  who  knows  ?  —  it  may  be  mine  : 

What  if  'twere  —  forgive  the  fancy  — 
What  if  'twere  —  both  mine  and  thine  ? 

T.  w.  r. 


n 


DEPARTURE  AND  RETURN. 


A    TALE    OF    FACTS. 


When  I  entered  the  Churchyard  it  was  in  the  morn- 
ing —  a  morning  one  of  the  serenest  and  sweetest  of  the 
season.  Summer  had  robed  the  earth  in  luxuriant  beau- 
ty ;  save  a  few  fleecy  cloudlets,  far  on  the  ethereal  depths, 
the  whole  bosom  of  the  sky  was  blue  and  beautiful ;  and 
nature,  with  a  silent  rejoicing,  seemed  to  bask  in  the 
warmth  of  the  genial  sun.  All  around  was  tranquil,  the 
hum  of  busy  life  was  hushed,  and  even  inanimate  nature 
seemed  to  feel  and  own  the  presence  of  the  Sabbath. 
The  murmur  of  the  stream  came  on  the  ear  like  "  a  ten- 
der lapsing  song  ; "  and  the  lark  that  sprang  from  the 
tufted  grass  at  my  feet,  carolling  fitfully  as  it  fluttered 
and  soared,  appeared  in  the  ear  of  imagination  to  chas- 
ten its  wild  lyric  notes  to  something  of  a  sad  melody. 

As  I  stood  looking  at  the  old  church,  there  was  mag- 
ic in  the  remembrances  connected  with  it.  The  whole 
structure  appeared  less  than  it  had  done  to  the  eye  of 
boyhood,  and  scarcely  could  I  make  myself  believe  that 
it  was  the  same  ;  but  in  proof  of  its  identity,  there  was 
B  2 


12  DEPARTURE    AND    RETURN. 

the  self-same  bush,  from  which  a  school-fellow  and  my- 
self had  purloined  a  green-linnet's  nest,  still  keeping  its 
contorted  roots  ftte?di.>y  fastened  in  the  crevices  of  the 
mouldeiing  stones  on  the  abutment  of  the  ivied  tower. 
\Vhih'  c!i.^tiD;g'ai.y  eyes  iip.to  the  steeple,  which  still  from 
its  narrow  iron-barred  lattices  looked  forth  in  grayness, 
the  jangling  of  the  bell  commenced,  and  its  sonorous 
ding-dong  resounded  through  the  air,  like  the  voice  of 
a  guardian  spirit  w^atching  over  the  holiness  of  the  old 
temple.  I  sauntered  a  few  footsteps  from  the  walls,  and 
some  urchins,  dressed  out  "  in  their  Sunday's  best,"  all 
neatly  clean,  were  wandering  amid  the  mossy  tomb- 
stones, picking  king-cups  and  daisies.  The  oldest  had 
a  child  in  her  arms,  seemingly  a  little  sister,  and  was 
spelling  out  the  inscription  on  one  side  of  a  square  pil- 
lar. 

So  unperceived  is  the  lapse  of  time,  and  so  gradual 
the  change  of  circumstances,  that  it  is  only  by  contrast 
we  come  to  perceive  the  startling  alterations  which  years 
have  produced.  When  last  I  had  stood  in  that  calm  field 
of  graves,  I  was  a  youth,  with  hopes  buoyant  as  a  spring- 
morning,  and  full  of  that  animation  and  romantic  de- 
light which  cares  only  to  look  on  the  sunny  side  of 
things.  Nature  v/as  then  as  a  magnificent  picture  ;  the 
afi*ections  of  the  heart  a  dream  of  love.  When  atten- 
dant on  memory  we  travel  through  the  past,  hov/  often 
do  we  stumble  on  green  spots  and  sunny  knolls  —  on 
scenes  and  on  persons  which  endeared  life,  which  awak- 
en "  thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears,"  and 
pleasant  remembrances  of  what  hath  been,  never  to  l.'C 
again,  —  too  pleasant  to  be  pondered   on,  except  on  a 


DEPARTURE   AND    RETURN.  13 

bright  holiday.  As  I  leant  my  elbow  on  an  old  moss- 
greened  tombstone,  I  gazed  on  the  country  around  —  I 
knew  it  all  —  it  was  the  same,  and  unchanged  ;  but  the 
feelings  with  which  I  had  once  viewed  it  were  withered 
for  ever ! 

I  was  in  my  nineteenth  year  when  I  left  home,  and  at 
that  age  life  has  not  lost  its  romantic  interest,  nor  earth 
its  fairy  hues.  The  serious  occupations  of  lif^ad  been 
hardly  commenced  ;  but  trifles  were  allowed  instead  to 
assume  undue  importance.  Yet  what  events  may  spring 
from  veriest  trifles  —  trifles  seemingly  unworthy  remem- 
brance, far  less  record.  Nevertheless,  such  influenced 
my  fate  —  changed  all  my  views  —  and  gave  the  color 
to  my  future  destiny. 

Reader  —  I  was  then  in  love.  If  you  have  never 
been  so,  put  aside  this  brief  narrative,  until  that  con- 
summation happens  to  you,  for  it  will  appear  unnatural 
and  over-strained.  If  you  have  been,  or  are,  I  throw 
myself  on  your  tender  mercies. 

Catherine  Wylie,  before  she  left  home  to  spend  a 
few  days  with  a  relation  a  mile  or  two  distant,  had  giv- 
en me  a  promise  to  return  on  a  particular  evening  —  the 
Friday  evening  —  at  a  particular  hour,  and  I  was  to  be 
in  waiting  as  her  escort.  The  days  passed  over,  and  the 
evening  came. 

The  clock  had  just  struck  six ;  it  was  summer  time, 
the  middle  of  a  delicious  June,  and,  shutting  my  book, 
I  was  proceeding  to  the  door,  when  lo !  it  opened,  and 
in  bounced  my  thoughtless  friend,  Frank  Lumsden. 

"I  am  just  come  over  to  spend  an  hour  with  you,"  he 
said,  tapping  me  on  the  shoulder;  "or  what  say  you  to 

B3 


14  DEPARTURE    AND    RETURX. 

a  Stroll  on  this  fine  evening  ?  They  say  a  Danish  ves- 
sel has  come  into  our  little  harbor  to-day.  Let  us  go 
down,  and  have  a  look  of  it." 

What  could  I  do —  what  could  I  say  ?  Love  is  bash- 
ful as  it  is  secret ;  and  the  tongue  of  a  lover  fails  when 
most  required.  It  would  have  been  rudeness  to  have 
shaken  him  off;  and  had  I  plead  out  of  doors  engage- 
ment, tCTrto  one  he  would  have  proposed  accompanying 
me.     Frank  was  a  general  acquaintance. 

Out  we  went ;  there  was  no  help  for  it.  I  was  angry 
with  myself  and  him.  The  evening  passed  over  ;  every 
minute  seemed  an  hour.  I  cursed  the  Danish  vessel, 
and  all  that  it  concerned.  Frank  stuck  to  me  like  an 
evil  conscience  ;  and  not  till  an  hour  after  all  hopes  of 
seeing  Miss  Wylie  had  expired,  did  he  leave  me  to  my- 
self, to  chew  the  cud  of  my  bitter  thoughts. 

The  next  noon  I  called  in  the  expectation  that  some 
chance  might  have  been  afforded  me  to  plead  my  apol- 
ogy, and  to  express  at  once  my  regret  and  disappoint- 
ment. I  only  saw  Mrs.  Y/ylie  ;  Catherine  was  indis- 
posed. For  several  successive  days  I  made  inquiries. 
She  was  better,  but  had  not  left  her  room  —  she  was  now 
nearly  quite  well  —  she  was  out  at  a  short  walk  ;  — Cath- 
erine was  invisible.  What  could  this  mean  ?  Offence, 
if  offence  had  been  given  by  me,  was  involuntary.  Faul- 
ty or  not,  why  condemn  me  without  affording  opportuni- 
ty either  of  a  hearing  or  an  explanation  ? 

At  that  period,  all  the  passions  of  youth  burned  hotly 
in  my  heart,  and  all  within  was  in  a  tumult.  By  fits  I 
was  sorrowful  and  angry — jealous  —  doting  —  implaca- 
ble —  forgiving ;  "  every  thing  by  turns,  and  nothing 


DEPARTURE    A>'D    RETURN.  15 

long, "  except  in  the  ardor  of  an  affection  which  I  rail- 
ed against,  but  could  not  cast  from  me. 

Previous  to  this,  I  had  been  urged  by  my  friends  to 
accept  of  a  lucrative  mercantile  situation  in  Deraerara  : 
but  this  offer,  although  not  positively  refused,  I  had  kept 
in  abeyance  solely  on  account  of  my  reluctance  to  leave 
all  in  the  vrorld  that  was  then  held  dear  by  me. .  In  the 
delirium  of  my  thoughts  I  imagined  that  thiaftiar  was 
now  removed  ;  and  that  not  only  had  I  a  right  to  ^  where 
I  pleased,  but  that  I  was  ready  at  a  moment's  warning  to 
do  so.  She  shuns  me  ;  she  despises  me  ;  —  at  all  events 
she  condemns  me  unheard  ;  she  wishes  to  get  rid  of  me  ; 
her  affections  may  have  been  alienated  to  another  ;  I 
shall  not  distress  her  ;  she  shall  soon  be  rid  of  my  pres- 
ence. 

But  perhaps  I  had  procrastinated  too  long.  Was  the 
situation  still  open  ?  I  wrote  on  the  instant  to  my  friend 
at  Liverpool.  By  return,  an  answer  came,  summoning 
me  to  be  ready  with  all  speed,  as  the  vessel  was  ready 
for  sailing,  and  that  he  had  secured  my  passage.  In 
two  days  I  was  off  on  my  journey.  Headstrong  and 
impetuous,  I  had  not  time  —  I  gave  myself  not  time  — 
to  reflect  on  my  conduct.  The  steps  I  had  taken  were 
irretrievable. 

Did  Miss  Wylie  know  my  motions  ?  I  had  every 
reason  to  believe  that  she  did  not ;  and  I  even  triumph- 
ed in  the  supposition  (may  Heaven  forgive  me  !)  that 
she  would  feel  the  cruelty  of  her  conduct  to  me,  and 
suffer  for  it  —  oh,  not  suffer  —  that  is  too  strong  a  word 
—  but  be  sorry  for  it  when  too  late. 

The   morrow   was  my  starting  time.     1  was  to  leave 

B4 


16  DEPARTURE    AND    RETURN. 

my  native  land,  and  all  I  loved  in  the  world,  in  search 
of  uncertain  gains.  My  mind  was  dissatisfied  and  dark, 
and  I  could  have  wished  for  death,  were  it  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  my  bones  should  rest  in  the  same  church- 
yard with  those  of  my  family  and  forefathers.  The  love 
of  country  may  be  much  stronger  in  some  bosoms  than 
in  others  ;  but  if  the  latent  glow  is  at  any  time  to  be 
called  forth,  it  must  be  when  a  man  is  leaving  it  for  a 
dim  and  indefinite  period  —  perhaps  with  little  prospect 
of  return. 

At  morning  the  carriage,  with  trunks  laced  on  top 
and  front,  rattled  to  the  door.  We  drove  off;  passed 
through  the  well-known  streets,  like  people  who  are 
hurrying  to  a  scene  of  gayety  ;  and  before  I  had  recov- 
ered enough  from  my  reverie  to  be  altogether  conscious 
of  what  was  passing,  we  were  several  miles  from  my 
native  place  —  from  the  home  of  Catherine  Wylie.  I 
remember,  even  in  the  midst  of  my  hardy  bravery,  be- 
ing more  than  once  overcome  with  the  softness  of  hu- 
manity, and  starting  up  to  the  windows  of  the  chaise, 
to  cast  a  last,  and  yet  another  last  look  backwards.  The 
young  day  was  serene  and  beautiful ;  the  birds  were 
singing  in  the  fields,  and  the  wayside  traveller  whistling 
in  vacant  joyfulness  of  heart.  The  town  was  still  visi- 
ble, as  it  lay  on  the  side  of  a  gentle  hill.  The  blue 
smoke  from  a  hundred  happy  hearths  was  ascending  up 
through  the  quiet  morning  air,  and  the  weathercock  on 
the  town-house  steeple  glittered  brightly  in  the  sun- 
shine. 

Thirty  years  !  —  what  a  chasm  in  human  life  —  thir- 
ty years  passed  over  my  head  in  a  foreign  land,  as,  chang- 


DEPARTURE    A^D    RETURN.  17 

ed  in  form  and  mind,  I  set  my  foot  on  the  native  soil 
to  which  I  felt  I  had  almost  grown  an  alien.  The  high- 
hearted passionate  stripling  had  become  transformed  in- 
to the  sallow  valetudinarian,  the  almost  penniless  youth 
into  the  man  of  substance.  On  the  morning  after  my 
arrival,  as  I  thought  of  my  early  years,  I  looked  at  my 
face  in  the  mirror,  and  could  not  help  heaving  a  sigh 
over  the  ravages  of  time. 

Need  I  say  that  few,  very  few  of  my  early  friends  re- 
mained to  bid  me  welcome  back  ?  The  sythe  of  time 
had  made  dreadful  havoc.  The  old  had  passed  away 
'*  like  a  tale  that  is  told ;  "  the  mature,  such  as  remain- 
ed of  them,  were  gray-headed,  and  bending  under  the 
weight  of  years.  Boys  were  transformed  into  the  thought- 
ful fathers  of  families,  and  jocund  thoughtlessness  had 
given  place  to  the  furrowing  lines  of  care.  Around  me 
was  a  generation,  which,  mushroom-like,  had  sprung  up 
in  my  absence,  and  more  than  once  I  mistook  the  chil- 
dren for  their  parents  —  pictured  in  my  remembrance 
as  if  they  had  been  destined  never  to  grow  old.  The 
parents  of  Miss  Wylie  —  the  mistress  of  my  heart  in 
its  heyday  —  were  long  since  dead  ;  and  she  gone,  many, 
many  years  ago,  none  knew  whither. 

I  now  almost  repented  me  that  I  had  returned  home. 
Much  better  had  it  been  had  I  lingered* on  and  on,  think- 
ing that  mnny  old  acquaintances  might  await  me  there, 
if  ever  I  determined  to  bend  my  way  thitherwards  — 
much  better  had  it  been  to  have  indulged  in  this  pleasing 
reverie  of  hope  —  to  have  died  in  it  —  than  to  have  the 
dreadful  certainty  exposed  to  me  of  all  my  deprivations 
—  the  cureless  misery  of  being  left  alone  in  the  world. 


18  DEPARTURE    AND    RETURN. 

From  having  passed  my  time  in  the  bustle  of  com- 
mercial speculations,  the  monotony  of  the  country,  un- 
cheered  by  cordial  sociality,  was  insupportable ;  and  I 
thought  that  things  would  go  better  on  if  I  placed  my- 
self, even  though  but  as  a  spectator,  amid  the  thorough- 
fares of  life.     In  such  a  hope  I  removed  to  Liverpool. 

In  a  few  days  one  of  the  clergymen  called  on  me. 
He  was  a  frank,  free  and  easy,  good-natured  sort  of  a 
person,  and  we  became  rather  intimate  after  a  short  ac- 
quaintance. Being  a  bachelor,  and  unencumbered  with 
family  matters,  he  not  unfrequently  did  me  the  honor  of 
stepping  in  to  share  with  me  my  sometimes  solitary  meal, 
and  to  enliven  it  by  his  pleasant  conversation.  Nor  was 
the  smack  of  my  port  disagreeable  to  his  palate,  if  I 
may  credit  his  repeated  confessional. 

We  had  been  for  some  time  in  the  habit  of  taking  a 
forenoon  saunter  together,  in  the  course  of  which  he 
took  me  to  different  places  of  public  resort.  I  remem- 
ber his  one  day  saying  to  me,  "  If  you  have  no  objec- 
tions we  will  now  visit  a  scene  not  less  gratifying,  though 
far  less  ostentatious,  than  any  we  have  hitherto  paid  our 
devoirs  to.  It  is  an  orphan  school,  taught  without  fee 
or  reward,  by  an  old  widowed  lady." 

He  led  me  to  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  obscure 
parts  of  the  town,  where  the  buildings  seemed  congre- 
gated together  in  direct  opposition  to  all  regularity  or 
order  —  a  confused  and  huddled  mass,  where  squalor 
and  poverty  showed  but  too  many  signs  of  their  presid- 
ing dominion. 

Proceeding  down  one  of  those  lanes,  we  came  to  a 
low-browed  doorway,  and  he  entered  without  the  ccr- 


DEPARTURE   AM)    RETURN.  VJ 

emony  of  tapping.  There  were  three  windows  in  the 
apartment,  but  from  the  narrowness  of  the  lanes  on  ei- 
ther side,  the  light  was  so  much  obscured,  that  a  degree 
of  indistinctness  seemed  permanently  thrown  over  all 
the  objects  within.  In  a  few  seconds,  however,  the  vis- 
ion adapted  itself  to  the  place,  which  insensibly  bright- 
ened up,  and  discovered  to  us  some  thirty  or  forty  little 
urchins,  all  poorly  but  cleanly  habited,  arranged  on 
wooden  benches  —  the  girls  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
boys  on  the  other.  The  govern  ant  had  risen  from  her 
chair  on  our  entrance. 

While  my  reverend  friend  v/as  addressing  her  —  this 
recluse  from  the  world,  who  had  devoted  her  life  to  the 
sole  purpose  of  doing  good  —  an  indescribable  emotion 
awoke  within  me.  The  remembrance  of  I  knew  not 
what  flashed  across  my  memory.  She  was  a  lady-look- 
ing person,  somewhere  on  the  worst  side  of  fifty,  rather 
tall  and  thin.  We  stopped  for  a  little,  while  she  ex- 
plained to  my  friend  some  alterations  and  arrangements 
she  had  been  recently  making  in  her  teaching-room. 
After  which  we  heard  two  or  three  of  her  pupils  con 
over  their  lessons,  and  repeat  a  hymn,  and  making  our 
bows,  wished  her  a  good  morning. 

"  What  is  that  lady's  name  ?"  I  asked.  "  Does  she 
belong  to  this  town  ?" 

"  I  believe  not,"  was  the  reply.  ''  But  she  has  been 
for  a  long  time  here ;  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years,  I 
dare  say.  I  do  not  know  much  of  her  history  ;  but  she 
is  the  widow  of  a  Captain  Smith  —  a  West  India  cap- 
tain. Her  own  name,  I  believe,  was  Wylie,  or  some 
such  thing." 


20  DEPARTURE  AND  KETUR?f. 

I  could  have  sunk  into  the  ground.  "Wylie,  did  you 
say?" 

"  Yes,  Wylie,  1  am  sure  that  is  the  name.  Perhaps 
you  overheard  her  invitation  for  my  dining  at  their 
house  to-morrow.  They  are  most  excellent  people,  and 
I  am  on  the  most  easy  terms  with  them.  As  you  seem 
interested,  do  accompany  me  —  and  I  will  vouch  for 
your  receiving  a  hearty  and  sincere  welcome." 

The  drawing-room  into  which  we  were  ushered  was 
large,  and  although  smacking  somewhat  of  the  fashion 
of  years  gone  by,  yet  not  without  pretension  to  el- 
egance. Mrs.  Smith,  our  hostess,  received  us  with 
much  cordiality,  and  introduced  us  to  two  or  three  fe- 
male friends,  who  were  to  make  up  our  party. 

The  window,  near  which  my  chair  was  placed,  looked 
into  a  very  pretty  flower-garden,  and  I  was  making  seme 
passing  compliment  on  the  manner  in  which  it  was  laid 
out,  when  the  same  indefinable  sympathy  between  the 
lady's  voice  and  something  relating  to  the  past,  again 
obtruded  itself  I  gazed  at  her  more  attentively,  when 
opportunity  offered  ;  and,  as  she  chanced  to  be  seated 
with  respect  to  me  so  that  her  profile  was  exhibited,  re- 
volved a  thousand  circumstances  in  my  mind,  which, 
however,  like  the  windings  of  the  Cretan  labyrinth,  led 
to  nothing,  and  left  me  in  doubt.  And  yet  her  name 
could  be  Wylie !  Strange  coincidence.  But  she  of 
yore  had  fair  hair,  this  had  dark.  To  dream  of  their 
identity  were  a  thing  impossible. 

In  a  f^w  minutes,  the  door  openhig,  a  tall  spare  figure 
entered,  whom  my  reverend  friend  introduced  to  mc  as 
Mrs.  Smith's  cousin. 


DEPARTURE    AND    RETURN.  21 


"Miss  Catherine  AVylie  —  my  friend,  Mr. 


I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  my  emotions.  The 
whole  truth  stood  in  a  tvv'inkling  revealed  before  my 
mind's  eye.  Thirty  long  years  were  annihilated  —  and 
the  day  of  my  departure  from  my  native  country,  "  all 
things  pertaining  to  that  day,"  —  its  hopes  —  its  fears  — 
its  regrets  —  its  feelings,  were  in  my  mind ;  and  prom- 
inent over  all,  the  image  of  Catherine  Wylie,  the  way- 
ward, the  young,  the  beautiful.  I  glanced  across  the 
room — I  looked  on  that  picture  and  on  this  —  there 
could  be  no  mistake  —  "alike,  but  oh  how  different  I" 
What  a  change  !  could  so  much  lie  within  the  narrow 
compass  of  human  life?  It  were  less  had  she  been 
dead  —  vanished  for  ever.  Then  would  she  have  been 
Catherine  Wylie  still,  the  peerless  in  the  eye  of  imag- 
ination ;  but  here  gloomy  reality  put  an  extinguisher  on 
fancy.  The  spring's  opening  rose  of  beauty  had  ma- 
tured onlv  to  wither  like  the  commonest  weeds  around, 
■J  ' 

and  to  droop  beneath  the  unsparing  blasts  of  age's  ap- 
proaching winter.  The  vision  of  long  years  was  dis- 
enchanted. The  romance  of  life  had  waned  away  into 
the  cold  and  frigid  truth  ;  and  my  heart  bled  to  behold 
its  long  cherished  idol  moulded  of  the  same  perishable 
elements  as  the  daily  groups  around.  She  was  plainly 
dressed.  Care  and  thought  and  the  ravages  of  time 
were  visible  on  her  countenance,  that  yet,  in  eclipse, 
betrayed  of  what  it  had  been,  as  the  western  sky  retains 
the  illumined  footprints  of  the  departed  sun.  She  was 
looking  wistfully  into  the  fire,  as  she  leaned  her  cheek 
on  her  thin  pale  fingers,  one  of  which  was  circled  by  a 
mourning  ring. 


22  DEPARTURE   AND    RETURN. 

Dinner  passed  oi'er,  but  no  symptoms  of  recognition 
on  her  part  were  perceptible.  I  had  contrived  to  i)lace 
myself  by  her  side;  yet  I  dared  scarcely  trust  myself 
to  enter  into  conversation  with  her.  Her  cousin  — 
our  hostess,  Mrs.  Smith  —  I  identified  with  a  young 
lady  whom  I  had  seen  at  her  aunt's  house  in  the  days 
of  yore,  and  who  was  an  especial  friend  of  Catherine. 
General  topics  were  discussed  —  more  especially  those 
of  a  serious  and  sedate  nature  —  but  I  could  take  no 
share  in  either  eliciting  or  keeping  up  the  flow  of 
thought.  My  heart  was  full  of  unutterable  things  ;  and 
often,  in  spite  of  every  repressing  effort,  an  unmanly 
tear  would  gather  itself  in  the  corner  of  my  eye.  Hap- 
pily all  this  was  unperceived,  and  my  absence  of  man- 
ner excited  no  attention.  Here  were  the  long-sundered 
fortuitously  brought  together,  after  seas  had  rolled  be- 
tween us  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  !  —  and 
yet  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  never  met  before. 

Having  on  our  walk  home  been  informed  by  my  rev- 
erend friend  that  our  hostess  was  regular  in  her  fore- 
noon attendance  on  the  labors  of  love  amid  which  we 
had  formerly  found  her  engrossed,  I  thought  I  might 
sinlessly,  and  without  breach  of  friendship,  make  a  vis- 
it next  forenoon.  I  did  so — and  found  Catherine  at 
home. 

She  had  not  the  least  suspicion  of  me.  I  tried  her 
on  various  topics,  and  occasionally  verged  very  near 
the  truth.  But  how  could  it  be  ?  She  was  a  girl  when 
last  we  parted.  Through  a  long  sequence  of  years,  in 
which  she  had  seen   all  the  world   changing,  she  had 


DEl'ARTURE    A>D    RETURN.  23 

heard  nothing  of  me,  and  the  chances  were  as  one  to 
five  hundred  that  I  could  yet  be  alive. 

"  You  mentioned  Darling-port,  Miss  Wylie,"  said  I ; 
''  are  you  acquainted  with  any  of  the  families  there?" 

^'  Oh  yes,"  she  answered  —  "  or  rather,  I  should  say, 
I  once  was.  Indeed  it  is  twenty  years  since  last  I  had 
foot  on  its  streets.  Our  bury ing-pl ace,  however,  is 
there,  and  I  must  pay  it  yet  another  visit,  when  I  am 
unconscious  of  all." 

"  May  it  be  long  till  then,  Miss  Wylie  !  It  is  still  a 
longer  period  since  I  took  up  my  abode  there;  — but  I 
lately  paid  it  a  visit.  Do  you  know  if  any  of  the  family 
of  the  G 's  are  still  alive?" 

She  turned  pale. 

**  I  scarcely  think  so.     G ,  did  you  say  ?     I  knew 

them  well,  long,  long  ago.  The  two  daughters  mar- 
ried, afld  settled  with  their  families  in  London.  James, 
the  youngest  son,  went  to  India,  when  a  mere  boy.  My 
inquiries  have  thrown  no  light  upon  his  destiny  since. 
Richard  went  out  to  a  mercantile  house  at  Demerara. 
But  that  is  thirty-two  years  ago." 

''Indeed,"  said  I,  almost  trembling,  as  I  took  a  small 
gold  locket  from  my  waistcoat  pocket.  ''  Did  you  ever 
see  that  before?" 

"  Merciful  heavens  !  is  it  possible?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  How  came  that  into  your  possession  "and  — and  who 

are  you  ?     Does  Richard still  live  ;  or,  dying,  did 

he  transmit  that  remembrancer  through  you,  to  be  giv- 
en to  her  who  once  owned  it?" 

"  Nay,  Catherine,"  I  answered  ;  "■  look  at  me.     Am 


24  DEPARTURE    AND    RETURN. 


I  indeed  changed  so  much  that  you  —  even  you  do  not 


recognise  me 


?" 


She  started  back,  half  in  agitation  and  half  in  alarm, 
gazing  at  me  for  a  second  or  two  in  breathless  silence, 
then,  sinking  into  a  chair,  extended  to  me  her  hand, 
which  (I  trust  pardonably)  I  pressed  to  my  lips.  The 
hour  was  a  melancholy  one  —  but  it  w^as  an  hour  of  the 
heart,  and  worth  many  years  living  for.  In  it  the  mys- 
tery of  life  was  unriddled,  and  the  paltry  nucleus  on 
which  its  whole  machinery  may  revolve  fully  disclosed 
to  view. 

'^I  remember  well,"  she  said,  "the  evening  you  al- 
lude to;  but  you  blame  me  without  cause,  when  you 
say  that  I  dismissed  you,  without  deigning  an  expla- 
nation. I  had  been  urged  by  the  family  whom  I  was 
visiting  to  extend  my  stay  for  a  few  days  longer  ;  but 
no  —  I  held  in  mind  your  promise  to  meet  me,  and  all 
their  entreaties  were  in  vain.  Let  me  add,  that  I  had 
been  that  very  day  told  that  you  were  about  to  be  mar- 
ried to  another.  This  I  could  scarcely  lend  an  ear  to  ; 
yet  it  would  be  prudery  in  me  at  this  distance  of  time 
to  deny  the  effect  on  my  excited  feelings. 

''  When  I  descended  from  the  carriage  at  the  ap- 
pointed spot,  for  I  would  not  allow  it  to  proceed  with 
me  nearer  home,  I  gazed  anxiously  along  the  road.  No 
one  was  there ;  and,  as  twilight  was  already  deepening, 
I  made  what  speed  I  could  homewards.  I  confess  it 
was  now  only  that  what  I  had  heard  began  to  make  a 
serious  impression  on  my  mind,  and  from  what  had 
happened  I  felt  vexed  and  agitated.  Come  what  might, 
in  this  peevishness  of  spirit  I  determined  on  denying 


DEPARTURE    AND    RETURN.  25 

myself  to  you  for  a  few  days,  to  evidence  my  displeas- 
ure, as  well  as  my  doubt.  That  by  this  determination 
I  was  sorely  punishing  myself  I  do  not  deny  ;  but  the 
resolve  was  strengthened  from  my  learning,  the  same 
night,  that  you  had  twice  passed  my  window,  leaning 
on^the  arm  of  Frank  Lumsden,  the  brother  of  your  re- 
puted bride. 

'«  What  could  I  think  —  young  and  inexperienced  — 
and  in  a  case  that  precluded  me  from  daring  to  ask  ad- 
vice, or  acquire  information?  I  kept  my  apartment, 
feigning  illness  —  ah  !  not  feigning  it.  The  sickness 
of  the  heart  was  mine  ;  more  intolerable  in  the  endur- 
ance than  aught  of  corporeal  suffering.  Doubt  was 
with  me  night  and  day.  It  clouded  my  day  dreams  — 
it  haunted  my  nightly  pillow.  A  pocket  copy  of  Milton, 
which  you  had  the  week  before  presented  me  with,  was 
my  only  companion  — but  I  could  not  peruse  it.  My 
sorrows  were  too  entirely  selfish  to  allow  my  thoughts 
being  alienated  from  my  inward  feelings.  But,  in  the 
calm  of  after  years,  I  have  often  read  it  since  — there 
it  is,"  she  added,  reaching  a  carefully-preserved  volume 
from  the  mantel-piece.  "  But  my  doubts  and  my  hope 
deferred  at  length  ended  in  despair.  The  first  thing  I 
heard  was,  that  you  had  embarked  for  a  foreign  country, 
and  I  vowed  a  separation,  so  far  as  Christian  duties  per- 
mitted, from  the  things  and  thoughts  of  this  world. 
No  one  has  possessed  the  place  which  you  — and  now  I 
speak  of  you  as  a  being  of  the  past  — once  possessed 
in  my  affections,  and  I  have  striven  to  keep  my  vow  un- 
broken before  ITeavcn." 

These  passages  from  the  story  of  human  life  need 


26  DEPARTURE    AND    RETURN. 

no  comment.  He  who  knows  not  to  control  his  pas- 
sions, and  bear  with  the  frailties  of  those  around,  in- 
stead of  freeing  himself  from  difficulties  and  annoyan- 
ces, will  only  plunge  himself  more  inextricably  into 
the  slough.  Behold  what  ''  trifles  light  as  air  "  had  an 
overpowering  sway  in  our  destinies,  as  if  they  had  been 
**  confirmations  strong  as  proofs  of  holy  writ."  But  re- 
grets are  now  vain.  Five  minutes  of  explanation  would 
to  both  have  altered  the  hues  of  destiny,  and  saved  thirty 
long  years  of  melancholy  separation. 

We  lived  in  calm  friendship  for  two  years  after  this 
meeting,  when  my  poor  Catherine  was  suddenly  called 
to  pay  the  debt  of  nature ;  and  mine  was  the  sorrowful 
privilege  of  laying  her  head  in  the  grave.  I  often  visit 
the  spot,  and  con  over  the  name  engraved  on  her  simple 
tomb.  Nor  can  the  time  be  far  distant  when  my  ashes 
shall  be  laid  beside  hers,  and  our  spirits  meet  again  in 
another  world  to  part  no  more. 


27 


PARTING  WORDS. 


May  morning  light  fall  o'er  thee, 

When  I  am  far  away  } 
Let  Hope's  sweet  words  restore  thee 

All  we  have  dreamed  to-day. 

I  would  not  have  thee  keep  me 

In  mind  by  tears  alone  ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  weep  me, 

Love  mine,  —  when  I  am  gone. 

No;  —  as  the  brook  is  flowing. 
With  sunshine  at  its  side, 

While  fair  wild  flowers  are  growing, 
Leant  lovely  o'er  the  tide  ; 

So  linked  with  many  a  treasure 
Of  nature  and  of  spring, 

With  all  that  gives  thee  pleasure, 
My  heart  to  thine  shall  cling. 

The  rose  shall  be  enchanted 
To  breathe  of  love  to  tliee ; 

All  fair  things  shall  be  haunted 
Witli  vows  of  faith  from  me. 

The  west  wind  siiall  secure  thee- 
My  tidings  from  the  main; 

But,  most  of  all,  assure  thee 
How  soon  we  meet  again. 


28 


AN  ADVENTURE  WITH  AN  AMERICAN. 


BY    AN    ENGLISHMAN. 


I  HAD  been  disappointed  in  love.  As  sings  an  old 
rhyme,  which  I  remember  to  have  met  with  : 

"  My  heart  was  sad  : 
For  the  maid  was  married  whom  I  should  have  had." 

When  I  say  that  it  was  not  my  first  love,  nor  my  first 
disappointment  in  an  affair  of  the  heart,  I  would  not 
that  the  reader  should  infer  either  that  I  was  fickle  in 
my  attachments,  or  that  I  made  love  to  more  than  one 
damsel  at  a  time.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  the  most 
constant  and  devoted  of  swains.  What  captain  Dal- 
getty  was  in  war,  I  was  in  love :  that  is  to  say,  true  to 
my  colors  for  the  time  being ;  but  it  was  not  my  fault 
if  the  object  of  my  adoration  married  another ;  and  he 
must  have  odd  notions  of  propriety  who  could  expect 
me  to  love  her  afterwards. 

But,  although  it  was  not  my  first  love,  I  see  not  why 
I  was  less  to  bo  pitied  on, that  account  :  since,  in  love, 
as  in  the  gout,  every  fresh  attack  may  be  more  severe 


AN   ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN.  29 

than  the  last  ;  and  thus  it  was  in  my  case.  The  man 
who  hangs,  drowns,  or  shoots  himself,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, is  precluded  from  another  chance  in  the 
lottery  of  matrimony ;  and,  therefore,  I  did  neither. 
"  There  are,"  says  Winifred  Jenkins,  or  some  other 
classical  authority,  "  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever 
came  out  of  it." 

However,  I  had  no  special  temptation  to  remain  in  a 
circle  where  I  was  continually  exposed  to  the  mortifica- 
tion of  meeting  the  "  happy  pair,"  as  all  newly  married 
persons  are  styled,  and  doubtless  are,  until  their  first 
quarrel ;  so  I  resolved  to  visit  the  Continent.  It  is  true, 
I  might  have  attained  my  object  without  stirring  from 
my  own  country.  Like  my  friend  S.,  I  might  have 
buried  myself  in  the  heart  of  the  Glamorganshire  moun- 
tains, and  the  smoke  of  forty  furnaces;  or  I  might  have 
been  equally  invisible  in  the  eternal  drizzle  of  the  De- 
vonshire hills ;  but  I  had  a  fancy  for  drinking  hock,  a 
favorite  wine  with  me,  "  in  its  native  purity,"  and  there- 
fore embarked  for  the  Rhine. 

Having  no  notion  of  travelling  a  rAnglatsc,  that  is, 
as  if  the  object  were  to  get  over  the  greatest  quantity  of 
ground  in  the  shortest  possible  space  of  time,  I  went  up 
the  river,  and  down  the  river,  and  ascended  it  again  ; 
sojourning  a  day  at  one  spot,  and  two  days  at  another, 
and  saw  all  the  lions  from  every  point  at  which  they 
could  be  viewed. 

I  had  been  tarrying  a  short  time  at  Schaffhausen, 
when  I  encountered  an  old  friend,  who,  like  myself,  had 
gone  thither  to  see  the  falls  of  the  Rhine ;  but  who,  on 
the  second  day  after  our  meeting,  received  a  summons 


30  AN    ADVENTURK    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

to  join  his  man  of  business  at  Paris.  He  had  with  him 
a  light  caleche,  and  a  pair  of  English  bays,  which,  be- 
ing compelled  to  pursue  his  journey  with  all  despatch, 
he  could  not  take  with  him,  and  therefore  committed  to 
my  care ;  I  undertaking  to  bring  them  home  with  me 
to  England,  He  likewise  left  v/ith  me  his  postilion, 
who,  a  German  by  birth,  was  acquainted  also  with  the 
English  language ;  and  whom,  independently  of  his  pro- 
fessional services,  and  perfect  knowledge  of  the  locali- 
ties, I  found  useful  as  an  interpreter,  my  own  Teutonic 
lore  being  rather  theoretical  than  practical. 

A  friend  of  mine  being  resident  at  Stuttgard,  I  re- 
solved on  paying  him  a  visit,  which,  proceeding  by  easy 
stages,  with  occasional  halts  of  a  day,  for  the  purpose  of 
resting  my  horses,  I  could  well  accomplish  with  the 
travelling  equipage  placed  at  my  disposal. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  a  remarkably  fine  day,  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  autumn,  that,  in  the  prosecution 
of  this  plan,  I  was  travelling  through  the  Schwartzwald, 
or  Black  Forest.  The  roads  were  heavier  than  I  ex- 
pected to  find  them,  and,  accustomed  as  I  had  been  to 
the  admirable  highways  of  England,  I  began  to  find  the 
ourney  tedious.  It  wanted  but  two  hours  of  sunset, 
and  there  were  yet  some  miles  between  me  and  the  soli- 
tary inn  in  the  forest,  at  which  I  proposed  to  halt. 

Being  naturally  anxious  to  reach  my  quarters  before 
night-fall,  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  window,  for  the 
purpose  of  urging  on  my  postilion  the  expediency  of 
quickening  his  pace,  when  my  attention  was  attracted 
by  the  sight  of  a  travelling-carriage,  nearly  overturned, 
by  the  road-side.     It  had,  apparently,  been  drawn  by 


AN    ADVENTURE    WITH   AN    A3IERICAN.  31 

two  horses,  one  only  of  which  was  visible,  and  that,  dis- 
engaged from  the  vehicle,  was  grazing  on  a  little  patch 
of  greensward  beneath  the  trees. 

The  only  human  being  on  the  spot  was  a  young  man, 
probably  not  more  than  four  or  five-and-twenty.  He 
Avas  somewhat  above  the  middle  height ;  athletically,  yet 
not  inelegantly  formed.  His  hair  was  light,  and  slight- 
ly curled ;  his  complexion  remarkably  fair,  but  ruddy  ; 
and  his  face,  although  too  round  to  be  deemed  strictly 
handsome,  had  a  pleasing  and  good-humored  expres- 
sion;  and,  combined  with  his  laughing  light-blue  eyes, 
formed  a  striking  contrast  to  those  Werter-visages  with 
which  romantic  young  ladies  are  wont  to  fall  in  love,  as 
prompt  paymasters  draw  their  bills,  at  sight.  He  was 
attired  in  a  blue  frock-coat  and  foraging  cap,  and  had 
altogether  the  look  and  air  of  a  gentleman. 

When  I  first  descried  him,  he  was,  with  a  flint  in  his 
hand,  endeavoring  to  coax  a  reluctant  spark,  from  the 
tyer  of  one  of  the  wheels,  into  a  piece  of  German  tin- 
der, for  the  purpose,  I  presumed,  of  lighting  his  cigar. 
On  my  addressing  him,  he  desisted  from  his  occupation. 
I  had  formerly,  at  the  house  of  a  merchant  in  London, 
been  thrown  into  the  society  of  some  American  gentle- 
men, and  I  thought  I  could  detect,  in  the  first  sentence 
of  his  reply  to  my  expressions  of  condolence  in  his  mis- 
fortune, that  he  was  an  American,  which,  it  afterwards 
appeared,  he  really  was. 

In  answer  to  my  inquiry  as  to  the  cause  of  the  acci- 
dent, he  pointed  to  one  of  the  fore-wheels,  which  was 
lying  a  few  yards  in  the  rear  of  the  carriage. 

"  But  where,"  I  inquired,  "  is  your  postilion  ?  " 


32  AN    ADVENTURE    AVITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

"  He  has  proceeded  on  the  other  horse  to  an  inn 
which,  he  informs  me,  is  a  few  miles  further,  in  quest 
of  assistance,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Do  you  expect  liim  back  soon  ?  "  I  asked. 

''  His  return,"  replied  he,  "  depends,  I  imagine,  upon 
the  quality  of  the  landlord's  wine,  and  the  charms  of  his 
daughter,  if  he  have  any ;  for  the  knave,  I  find,  was 
born  on  the  frontier,  and  with  the  true  Teutonic  taste 
for  the  wine  flask,  has  all  a  Frenchman's  devotedness  to 
the  fair  sex.  The  fellow  has  been  gone  long  enough  to 
have  been  back  an  hour  since." 

"  I  marvel,"  said  I,  "  that  you  did  not  mount  the  eth- 
er horse,  and  follow  him." 

"I  made  the  experiment,"  was  the  reply,  '' but  it 
did  not  answer." 

"Indeed!"!  exclaimed;  "would  not  the  beast  let 
you  get  on  his  back?  " 

"  O,  yes  !  "  said  he ;  "  but  he  had  an  objection  to  my 
remaining  there ;  for,  no  sooner  did  I  venture  to  sug- 
gest to  him  the  propriety  of  quitting  the  greensward  for 
the  road,  than  the  brute  flung  his  heels  up  in  the  air, 
and  threw  me  over  his  ears,  with  as  little  ceremony  as  if 
I  had  been  a  sack  of  sawdust !  " 

"  But  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ? "  I  asked. 

"Do?  "he  echoed;  "what  can  1  do,  but  pass  the 
night  in  the  forest,  here,  with  the  chance  of  being  de- 
voured !  —  whether  by  the  wolves,  or  the  wild  boars,  the 
morning  will  probably  determine." 

"Nay,"  said  I,  "there  is  surely  an  alternative." 

"  And  what  may  that  be?"  he  inquired. 

"  T'lie  vacant  scat  in  my  carriage  :  —  you  could  not 


AN   ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN.  33 

suppose,"  I  continued,  ''  that  I,  or  any  other  man,  could 
leave  you  in  this  plight." 

"I  know  not,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "what  the  jjien  of 
your  country  are  wont  to  do  in  such  a  case,  but  your 
women  have  marvellously  little  sympathy  for  a  traveller 
in  my  condition.  The  only  carriage  that  has  passed  the 
spot,  since  the  accident,  contained  one  of  the  sex,  who, 
with  a  chevaux-de-frise  of  beard  and  moustache,  which 
would  have  defied  the  most  determined  assault  upon 
her  lips,  popped  her  head  out  of  the  window,  and  in- 
quired minutely  into  the  particulars  of  my  misfortune; 
but  as  she  could  not  offer  me  a  seat  in  her  vehicle  with- 
out incommoding  her  maid  or  her  marmozet,  she  left 
me,  with  many  expressions  of  condolence,  and  the  con- 
solatory assurance  that  the  wolves  invariably  devour 
the  horse,  before  they  attack  the  traveller." 

As  time  was  precious  with  us,  I  leaped  from  the  car- 
riage, and  assisted  the  American  in  the  transfer  of  his 
luorgage  from  his  vehicle  to  my  own  :  when,  with  a  few, 
but  earnest  acknowledgments,  he  took  a  seat  beside  me^ 
and  we  pursued  our  journey.  His  name,  I  perceived  by 
the  brass  plate  on  his  portmanteau,  was  Woodley. 

My  fellow  traveller  was  frank  and  communicative, 
and,  by  the  time  we  arrived  at  the  inn,  I  gathered  from 
his  conversation  that  he  had  been  brought  up  to  the 
profession  of  physic,  which,  however,  finding  himself, 
at  the  age  of  one-and-twenty,  the  inheritor  of  an  ample 
fortune,  he  had  abandoned,  and  was,  at  that  time,  in  the 
course  of  a  tour  tlirough  Europe. 

The  inn  at  which  we  u-erc  destined  to  sojourn,  was 
an  old  and  dilapidated  building,  which,  although  of  con- 


34  AN   ADVENTURE    WITH   AN   AMERICAN. 

siderable  size,  contained  but  two  rooms,  independently 
of  sleeping  apartments,  into  which  a  guest  could  be  in- 
troduced ;  namely,  the  kitchen,  and  a  parlor  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  entrance-hall.  The  parlor  being  al- 
ready occupied  by  an  English  gentleman  and  lady,  we 
were  asked  into  the  kitchen,  where  the  first  object  which 
encountered  the  gaze  of  my  new  acquaintance,  was  his 
Gallo-teutonic  postilion,  with  a  glass  in  one  hand,  and 
the  rosy  fingers  of  the  "  maid  of  the  inn "  in  the 
other. 

The  manifestation  of  the  American's  justly  excited 
choler  would,  in  all  probability,  not  have  been  restricted 
to  words,  had  not  the  offender  vanished,  with  his  inam- 
orata, leaving  to  us  their  places  by  the  side  of  the  blaz- 
ing fire,  which,  with  such  homely,  yet  substantial,  and, 
to  us,  acceptable  refreshment,  as  the  house  afforded, 
had  soon  the  effect  of  restoring  my  companion's  wonted 
good  humor. 

Our  repast  was  seasoned  by  a  flask  of  Rhenish,  which 
our  host  pronounced  to  be  of  the  vintage  of  1789. 
Whatever  might  have  been  its  age,  the  wine  was  passa- 
ble, and,  under  its  influence,  the  American  and  myself, 
being  left  alone  in  the  apartment,  grew  mutually  com- 
municative, and  discussed  "  things  in  general,"  with  as 
little  reserve  as  if  we  had  been  friends  of  some  years' 
standing.  Among  other  topics,  the  respective  merits 
of  a  monarchical  and  republican  form  of  government 
became  the  subject  of  conversation  ;  each  of  us,  of 
course,  advocating  the  system  under  which  he  lived, 
and,  it  may  be  added,  had  prospered.  Insensibly  the 
del)ate  assumed   that   warmth  which  is,  unfortunately, 


AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN.  35 

too  characteristic  of  political  discussions,  and  it  not  uufre- 
quently  required  an  effort,  on  both  sides,  to  restrain  the 
discussion  within  the  boundary  of  good  breeding  and 
courtesy. 

In  the  meantime,  we  had  called  for  another  bottle, 
from  which  we  each  filled  a  glass,  when,  in  reply  to 
what  I  deemed  a  reflection  on  my  country,  I  hazarded 
a  remark  which  was  probably  more  creditable  to  my 
patriotism  than  my  judgment.  My  glass,  at  the  mo- 
ment, was  applied  to  my  lips,  and  the  American's  was 
within  an  inch  of  his,  when  he  hastily  replaced  it  on  the 
table,  and  dashed  mine  upon  the  floor. 

"  What  mean  you,  sir  ?  "  inquired  I,  starting  up,  un- 
der the  influence  of  mingled  feelings  of  wrath  and  sur- 
prise. 

"  Simply,"  replied  he,  in  a  tone  of  calmness  ap- 
proaching to  seriousness,  and  contrasting  greatly  with 
his  former  animated  strain,  "  that  there  is  that  in  the 
wine  which  belongs  not  to  the  vintage  of  1789,  so  much 
lauded  by  our  host.  In  other  words,  it  is  drugged,  and 
that  so  potently,  that  one  glass  of  the  liquor  before  you 
would  despatch  us  upon  a  journey  which  we  have  little 
contemplated,  and  for  which, —  God  help  us !  —  we  are, 
perhaps,  as  little  prepared." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  I  exclaimed,  "  forgive  the  rash  ex- 
pressions which  escaped  my  lips  !  " 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  the  occasion  appeared  to  warrant 
them;  but  it  was  no  time  for  ceremony." 

"  But,"  returned  I,  "■  arc  you  well  advised  of  what 
you  assert  ?  " 

"  Sure  of  it,"  ho  replied  ;  *'  I  cannot  be  mistaken  as 


36  AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

to  the  poison :  I  know  it  too  well,  and  could  detect  a 
drop  of  it  in  a  hogshead." 

*'  But  what,"  I   asked,   "  can  be  the  object  of  thus 
drugging  the  wine?" 

"Plunder,"  was  the  answer;  "  and  the  means  mur- 
der. These  German  road-side  inns  have  an  indifferent 
reputation.  I  like  not  the  looks  of  that  same  landlord 
of  ours,  and  I  have  more  than  doubts  of  the  good  faith 
of  my  postilion  ;  I  begin  to  suspect  that  the  breaking 
down  of  the  carriage  was  less  the  result  of  accident, 
than  of  design,  on  his  part,  to  leave  me  at  the  mercy, 
not  of  the  wolves  and  wild  boars,  but  of  a  gang  of  rob- 
bers, with  whom  gentry  of  my  driver's  complexion  have 
not  unfrequently  been  found  in  league.  However,  we 
will  summon  him  to  our  presence,  on  some  pretext  con- 
nected with  my  journey  to-morrow,  and,  by  a  little  dex- 
terous cross-questioning,  may  elicit  something  to  con- 
firm or  remove  our  suspicions.  In  the  meantime,  what- 
ever be  our  apprehensions,  it  will  not  be  wise  to  betray 
them  ;  so,  I  pray  you,  gather  up  the  fragments  of  your 
glass,  and  cast  them  into  the  ashes  :  —  you  may  replace 
it,  from  the  side-board,  yonder,  while  I  summon  my 
varlet." 

Our  call,  however,  for  the  postilion  of  tlie  broken  ve- 
hicle, was  fruitless.  He  had,  we  were  informed  by  the 
damsel  already  alluded  to,  quitted  the  inn,  in  quest,  it 
was  alleged,  of  the  post-horse,  which  Woodley  had  left 
grazing  by  the  carriage.  Our  worst  fears  were  now 
confirmed,  inasmuch  as  there  could  be  little  doubt  that 
the  knave  had  absconded,  for  the  purpose  of  putting  his 


AN   ADVENTURE    WITH    AN   AMERICAN.  37 

accomplices  on  the  right  scent  for  the  quarry  which 
they  would  have  missed  in  the  forest. 

We  remained,  for  a  few  seconds,  gazing  at  each  oth- 
er in  perplexed  silence,  Vv^hich  I  was  the  first  to  break, 
by  exclaiming  :  "  Our  position  is  any  thing  but  an 
agreeable  one  ;  what  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

''  Nothing,"  was  my  companion's  reply,  ''  but  stand  by 
each  other ;  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  we  shall  have  fearful 
odds  against  us." 

"  Shall  I  send  for  my  servant?  "  I  inquired  ;  meaning 
the  functionary  whom  my  friend  had  left  with  the  car- 
riage, and  who  officiated  for  me  in  the  treble  capacity 
of  valet,  postilion,  and  interpreter. 

"  By  no  manner  of  means,"  was  the  rejoinder  of 
Woodley,  who  exhibited  a  forethought  and  presence 
of  mind,  rarely  witnessed  on  such  trying  occasions. 
"  Much,"  he  added,  "  as  we  are  in  need  of  his  presence 
to  reduce  the  odds,  which,  I  fear,  are  opposed  to  us,  we 
cannot,  after  your  strict  injunctions  that  he  should  not 
be  disturbed  until  the  morning,  send  for  him,  without 
awakening  suspicions  which  may  precipitate  the  catas- 
trophe we  seek  to  avert." 

The  fact  is,  that  the  poor  fellow,  naturally  of  a  drow- 
sy habit,  had  been  so  overcome  by  the  fatigue  of  his 
journey,  and  the  subsequent  attention  to  his  cattle,  that 
I  had  dismissed  him  to  his  chamber,  which  was  in  a  re- 
mote part  of  the  rambling  old  building,  as  soon  as  he 
had  despatched  his  meal. 

"  Nevertheless,"  resumed  Woodley,  "  we  may  as 
well  open  a  communication  with  the  English  gentleman 
in  the  opposite  apartment;  for,  although,  to  judge  of 


38  AN   ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

the  glimpse  I  caught  of  Jiiin  when  the  door  opened  just 
now,  he  will  help  us  little  if  it  come  to  hard  knocks,  it 
is  but  fair  to  apprize  him  of  the  danger  to  which,  I 
doubt  not,  he  is  exposed  in  common  with  ourselves." 

I  assumed  the  office  of  ambassador,  and,  on  being 
admitted  to  tha  room,  I  found  myself  in  the  presence  of 
a  portly  gentleman  upon  whose  head  some  three-score 
winters  had  cast  their  snows,  and  whose  full  and  rather 
rubicund  countenance  gave  evidence  of  "  a  contented 
mind,"  and  somewhat  of  the  "  continual  feast,"  which 
forms  the  other  section  of  the  proverb.  In  fact,  "John 
Bull  "  was  written  upon  his  face  in  a  good  round  hand, 
which  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 

At  the  opposite  end  of  the  little  table  on  which  the 
dinner  was  spread,  was  a  young  lady,  apparently  about 
nineteen,  in  whose  features  a  "  general  resemblance," 
as  it  is  called,  to  her  companion  was  softened  down  into 
an  expression  of  surpassing  loveliness,  and  left  no  doubt 
that  the  twain  before  me  were  father  and  daughter. 

I  believe  there  are  few  persons  who  care  to  be  inter- 
rupted at  their  dinner,  unless  it  be  by  an  old  friend  to 
give  them  an  excuse  for  drinking  an  extra  glass  after- 
wards ;  and  thus  it  was,  that,  although  of  an  easy  tem- 
per, the  venerable  gentleman's  philosophy  was  scarcely 
proof  against  my  intrusion  at  that  particular  juncture. 

However,  Alderman  C  *  *  *  the  worshipful  and  en- 
lightened magistrate  of  the  ward  of  cand/cwicl', —  for 
such  was  the  august  individual  in  whose  presence  I 
stood,  —  received  ine  with  an  encouraging  nod,  and 
obligingly  pointed  to  a  chair  at  his  right  hand. 

The  reader  will  readily  believe  that  1   wasted  few 


AN   ADVENTURE    WITH    AN   AMERICAN.  39 

words  in  the  way  of  preface,  but,  plunging  at  once  "  in 
medias  res,"  informed  him  of  our  discovery  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  wine, 

'•'Obliged  to  you  all  the  same,  sir,"  said  the  worthy 
senior ;  "  but  I  never  touch  a  drop  of  their  wishy-washy 
wines,  and  my  daughter  never  drinks  wine  at  all.  This 
is  my  tipple,"  he  continued,  lifting  a  glass  of  brandy 
and  water  to  his  lips,  and  adding,  "  Your  health,  sir." 

A  small  travelling  spirit  case,  which  stood  open  on 
the  table,  showed  that  he  did  not  trust  to  the  cellar  of 
a  German  inn  even  for  a  supply  of  his  favorite  bever- 
age; but,  for  the  "good  of  the  house,"  as  he  expressed 
himself,  he  had  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine,  which,  al- 
though the  cork  had  been  drawn,  remained  untouched 
on  the  table. 

When,  however,  I  communicated  to  him  my  sus- 
picions that  the  adulteration  of  our  Hochheimer  was 
the  result,  not  of  accident,  but  of  a  design  on  our  lives 
and  purses,  the  alderman  dropped  his  knife  and  fork, 
and  in  a  tone  rather  of  vexation  than  alarm,  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  this  comes  of  foreign  travel !  Catch  me  beyond 
the  limits  of  old  England  again,  and  they  may  plunder 
me  and  cut  my  throat  into  the  bargain  !  I  should  have 
been  forty  miles  further  on  my  road  by  this  time,"  he 
continued,  "  but  for  the  unlucky  chance  of  my  driver 
falling  sick,  and  I  much  doubt  if  he  will  be  well  enoijgh 
to  proceed  with  us  to-morrow  morning  ;  but  that  will 
not  be  of  much  consequence  if  we  are  to  be  assassin- 
ated to-night.  However,"  he  added,  "  they  shall  not 
have  it  all  their  own  way." 

With  the  love  of  good  living,  and  bluntness  of  John 


40  AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

Bull,  the  alderman  possessed  no  small  portion  of  John 
Bull's  courage ;  and  starting  up,  he  hurried  across  the 
room  to  his  portmanteau,  and  drawing  thence  a  pair  of 
holster  pistols,  which  he  assured  me  were  "  Tower 
proof,"  and  had  formed  part  of  his  equipment  when  a 
private  in  that  distinguished  corps,  the  City  Light  Horse, 
he  said,  ''My  limbs,  young  gentleman, — thanks  to  old 
age  and  the  gout,  —  are  not  quite  so  nimble  as  yours, 
but  I  can  yet  pull  a  trigger,  and  if  there  is  virtue  in 
gunpowder,  the  rogues,  if  they  will  have  our  gold,  shall 
have  an  ounce  of  lead  with  it." 

After  a  brief  consultation,  it  was  agreed  that  I  and 
my  transatlantic  companion  should  shift  our  quarters 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  apartment  occupied  by  the  cit- 
izen and  his  daughter,  in  order  that  we  might  concen- 
trate our  forces.  On  returning  to  Mr.  Woodley  to  com- 
municate the  result  of  my  embassy,  I  found  that,  in  or- 
der that  our  suspicions  of  treachery  might  not  be  be- 
trayed, he  had  emptied  the  bottle  upon  the  ashes  so  as 
to  make  it  appear  that  we  had  drunk  the  wine. 

Previously  to  our  joining  the  alderman,  we  took  our 
pistols  from  our  portmanteaus,  and,  having  bestowed 
them  in  our  pockets,  summoned  the  attendant,  and  or- 
dered a  fresh  bottle  and  glasses  into  the  next  room  ;  al- 
leging my  countryman's  invitation  as  the  cause  of  our 
removal. 

We  had  scarcely  effected  this  coalition  with  the  al- 
derman, and  closed  the  door  of  the  apartment,  when  we 
heard  the  tramp  of  many  feet  advancing  from  the  sta- 
bles through  the  court-yard  of  the  inn,  and,  shortly  af- 
terwards, in   the  passage  which  divided   us  from  the 


AN   ADVENTURE    WITH   AN   AMERICAN.  41 

kitchen  we  had  just  quitted.  Having  waited  until  the 
noise  thus  occasioned  had  subsided,  I  applied  my  eye  to 
the  key-hole,  and  saw,  through  the  open  doorway  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  passage,  a  group  of  rough  look- 
ing men  gathered  round  the  kitchen  fire,  apparently  in 
earnest  conversation,  while  among  them,  not  a  little  to 
my  uneasiness,  tending  as  it  did  to  strengthen  my  fears, 
I  could  plainly  distinguish  the  postilion  of  the  Amer- 
ican's carriage. 

Unwilling  to  augment  the  alarm  of  our  fair  compan- 
ion by  communicating  the  result  of  my  examination,  I 
turned  a  significant  glance  on  Woodley,  who,  without 
making  any  remark,  rose  and  reconnoitred  the  enemy 
as  I  had  done,  and  then  resumed  his  seat.  The  alder- 
man and  his  daughter,  however,  had  observed  our  move- 
ments, and,  I  suppose,  gleaned,  from  the  expression  of 
our  faces,  that  the  aspect  of  affairs  was  not  improving. 
A  few  minutes  of  entire  silence  succeeded,  and  anxious 
as  I  naturally  enough  felt  on  my  own  account,  I  could 
not  help  stealing  a  glance  at  the  countenances  of  my 
companions,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  effect  produced 
upon  them  by  the  more  than  doubtful  circunjstances  in 
which  we  were  placed. 

The  alderman  betrayed  no  emotion,  except,  by  the 
restlessness  of  his  eye,  which  wandered  from  the  door 
to  his  daughter,  and  showed  that  the  father  was  busy  at 
his  heart ;  while  the  compressed  lips  and  varying  color 
of  the  lovely  girl  at  once  indicated  her  apprehensions, 
and  her  endeavors  to  conceal  them  from  her  anxious 
parent. 

I  next  scrutinized  the  American ;  but  his  look  blenched 


42  AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

not ;  nay,  even  the  perilous  position  in  which  he  stood, 
could  not  quite  quell  the  vivacious  expression  of  his 
laughing  blue  eye.  His  face  was  a  study  for  an  artist; 
calm,  not  from  contempt  of  danger,  but  from  the  habit- 
ual fortitude  and  self-possession  which  mark  a  brave 
man,  who,  having  made  up  his  mind  to  the  worst,  is  re- 
solved to  sell  his  life  as  dearly  as  he  can. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  conversation  in  the  kitchen, 
though  audible,  was  carried  on  in  so  low  a  tone,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  us  to  gather  its  import  without  throw- 
ing open  the  door  of  our  apartment,  which  jt  did  not 
seem  expedient  to  do.  Few  words  passed  among  our- 
selves, for  although  V/oodley  and  I  essayed,  by  starting 
indifferent  subjects  of  conversation,  to  turn  the  thoughts 
of  our  companions  from  the  unpleasant  channel  into 
which  our  precarious  circumstances  had  forced  them, 
our  endeavors  were  utterly  abortive. 

The  American,  observing  the  alderman  and  his  daugh- 
ter conversing  in  a  lov/  whisper,  availed  himself  of  the 
opportunity  to  examine  the  locks  of  his  pistols,  unper- 
ceived  by  them ;  an  example  which,  of  course,  I  did 
not  fail  to  follow.  An  inspection  of  the  citizen's  weap- 
ons, was  not,  however,  so  easily  to  be  accomplished 
without  increasing  the  alarm  of  his  daughter  ;  but  Wood- 
ley,  whose  tact  was  equal  to  his  self-possession,  after 
making  a  [e\v  turns  across  the  room,  took  up  the  pistols 
of  the  veteran  light-horseman,  with  a  careless  air,  as  if 
for  the  purpose  of  examining  their  fashion.  Turning 
his  back  upon  their  owner  and  his  fair  girl,  he  threw 
open  the  pans,  and,  with  a  smile,  exhibited  them  to  me 
without  a  grain  of  priming,  it  having  entirely  escaped. 


AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN   AMERICAN.  43 

Having  dexterously  remedied  the  defect,  unperceived 
by  our  companions,  he  quietly  replaced  them  by  the  al- 
derman's side. 

He  had  scarcely  performed  this  manoeuvre  when  a 
loud  crash  of  thunder,  the  distant  muttering  of  which 
had,  during  the  previous  half  hour,  announced  a  storm, 
burst  over  the  roof  of  the  inn,  with  a  vibration  which 
shook  every  article  of  furniture  in  the  apartment  we  oc- 
cupied, and  produced  a  corresponding  effect  upon  the 
nerves  of  the  young  lady.  Peal  succeeded  peal,  and 
the  rain  began  to  descend  in  torrents,  and  with  a  vio- 
lence as  if  every  drop  were  a  bullet. 

We  needed  not  this  addition  to  the  horrors  of  the 
evening  to  increase  our  discomforts.  At  last  a  terrific 
clap  of  thunder  was  followed  by  a  crash  which  indicat- 
ed that  one  of  the  monarchs  of  the  forest  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  electric  fluid.  This  appeared  to  be  the 
cliffljax  of  tlig^  storm,  which  gradually  decreased  ;  the 
thunder  became  less  audible,  and,  at  length,  died  away  ; 
the  rain  ceased,  and  Silence,  "Darkness'  solemn  sis- 
ter," resumed  her  reign. 

Wc  were  not  left  long  without  a  new  subject  for  our 
speculation.  The  sound  of  a  horse  at  full  speed  was 
heard  upon  the  road,  and,  in  a  few  seconds,  the  clatter- 
ing of  hoofs  upon  the  paved  court-yard  announced  a 
fresh  arrival.  The  front  door  of  the  inn  was  then 
opened,  and  steps,  as  of  a  heavily  booted  horseman  in 
the  passage,  were  audible,  The  new  comer  passed  into 
ihe  kitchen,  and  we  shortly  afterwards  heard  a  voice, 
differing  from  any  which  had  previously  emanated  from 
that  quarter,  addressing  in  a  tone  of  authority,  the  par- 


44  AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

ty  which  had  previously  taken  possession  of  that  apart- 
ment. 

It  should  be  remarked  that,  although  both  the  Amer- 
ican and  myself  possessed  a  sufficient  knowledge  of 
German  to  enable  us  to  read  works  in  that  language, 
our  very  imperfect  acquaintance  with  the  pronunciation 
rendered  it  extremely  difficult  for  us  to  understand  the 
natives,  as  well  as  to  make  ourselves  intelligible  to  them. 
The  inconvenience,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  had,  lat- 
terly, been  mainly  obviated  by  the  kindness  of  my  friend, 
who  had  left  me  an  interpreter  in  his  servant.  Our  fair 
companion  was  even  less  familiar  with  the  language 
than  ourselves;  and,  to  use  the  worthy  alderman's  own 
words,  it  was  all  Greek  to  him. 

The  conclave  in  the  kitchen  appeared  to  have  waited 
only  for  the  arrival  of  the  horseman  to  proceed  to  ac- 
tion, and  we  were  not  long  left  in  doubt,  as  to  whether 
the  discussion  had  reference  to  ourselves,  for  the  foot- 
steps of  the  whole  body  —  as  we  conceived  —  were 
heard  advancing  towards  our  apartment ;  at  the  door  of 
which  they  halted,  when  the  voice  of  the  lately  arrived 
guest,  iu  a  hurried  and  impatient  tone,  demanded  ad- 
mittance. 

In  anticipation  of  an  assault,  we  had  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  fasten  the  door,  as  well  as  we  could,  with 
the  single  bolt  on  the  inside  :  and  had  also  disposed  all 
the  movable  furniture  of  the  room  so  as  to  form  a 
breast-work,  behind  which  we  could,  at  greater  advan- 
tage, hre  upon  our  opponents,  in  the  very  probable  event 
of  their  forcing  the  door. 

To  the  summons  we  returned  a  peremptory  refusal, 


AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN.  45 

and  inquired  what  they  meant  by  disturbing  us.  An 
animated  conversation,  or  rather  consultation,  then  took 
place  among  our  assailants,  during  which  the  American, 
addressing  the  alderman  and  myself,  said  : 

"  My  friends,  if  they  burst  the  door,  as  no  doubt  they 
will,  be  not  in  too  great  haste  to  lire.  We  must  not,  if 
it  be  possible  to  avoid  it,  waste  a  shot.  Let  us,  there- 
fore, be  cool,  and  let  each  mark  his  man  ;  and,  with  our 
three  brace  of  pistols,  we  may  make  six  of  our  enemies 
bite  the  dust  before  they  can  close  with  us." 

The  words  had  scarcely  passed  his  lips  when  the  de- 
mand for  admittance  was  reiterated  with  more  energy, 
and  was,  of  course,  met  by  a  repeated  refusal. 

From  the  rejoinder  of  the  spokesman  without,  all  that 
we  could  understand  was,  "  You  are  trilling  Vvith  your 
lives  !    Open  the  door,  'or  you  are  all  dead  men  !  " 

"  You  will  enter  at  your  peril  ! "  responded  the 
American. 

"  Fools  !  madmen  !  "  we  collected  from  the  reply, 
''you  know  not  what  you  do.  Here,  Wilhelm,  —  Ru- 
dolph,—  Schwartz  !"  —  and,  the  next  moment,  we  dis- 
covered that  preparations  were  making  for  forcing  the 
door. 

A  few  heavy  blows  were  struck  upon  the  panels,  which, 
however,  not  being  of  modern  manufacture,  resisted  the 
assault.  A  lever  was  next  resorted  to,  apparently  with  a 
view  of  breaking  the  bolt,  or  forcing  it  from  the  socket; 
but  the  iron  and  the  door-post  were  obstinate,  and  our 
assailants  were  again  foiled. 

During  these  operations  I  stole  a  glance  at  my  com- 
panions.    The  maiden  whom,  for  better  protection,  we 
c 


4G  AN    ADVENTURE    V/ITII    AN   AMERICAN. 

had  placed  bcliind  the  most  substantial  piece  of  furni- 
ture in  the  room,  had  sunk  upon  her  knees,  with  her 
hands  clasped,  and  her  eyes  upraised  in  prayer  to  Him, 
whom  she  had  early  been  taught  to  believe  was  '^  a  very 
present  help  in  time  of  trouble. " 

The  alderman,  though  much  agitated,  exhibited  no 
lack  of  courage;  but  it  was  the  courage  of  a  tio-ress 
roused  in  defence  of  her  young. 

The  American  was  wonderfully  cool  and  self-possess- 
ed. Having  accidentally  dropped  one  of  his  pistols  he 
re-examined  the  lock,  and  replaced  the  percussion  cap 
with  as  much  apparent  indifference  as  he  v.'ould  have 
wound  up  his  watch.  His  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  the 
young  lady  was  second  in  intensity  only  to  her  father's. 
Woodley's  glance  was  ever  reverting  to  her,  and,  observ- 
ing that  she  was  not  sufficiently  covered  by  the  piece  of 
furniture  behind  which  she  had  taken  refuge,  he  took 
up  such  a  position,  that  a  shot,  fired  in  that  direction 
must  have  taken  effect  upon  himself  before  it  could 
reach  the  object  of  his  solicitude.  His  generous  con- 
sideration was  not  lost  upon  either  the  father  or  the 
daughter.  I  could  perceive  that  they  thanked  him  Vv-ith 
their  eyes. 

For  my^  own  part,  vvhether  I  betrayed  any  particular 
emotion  on  the  occasion  I  cannot  say  ;  but  this  I  know, 
that  I  heartily  wished  myself  out  of  the  scrape. 

The  crow-bar,  —  for  such  was  the  implement  of  which 
our  besiegers,  in  the  last  attempt,  availed  themselves, — 
was  then  inserted  between  tlie  door  and  the  door-post, 
wliere  they  were  united  by  the  hinges,  which,  being 
rusted  and  crazy,  finally  gave  way.     The  door  fell  in- 


A>'    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN.  47 

wards  with  a  loud  crash,  and  discovered  a  group  of 
rough-looking  persons,  headed  by  our  landlord,  and  a 
tall  swarthy  man,  booted  to  the  thighs,  whom  the  tone 
of  his  voice  identified  with  the  horseman  that  had  last 
arrived  at  tlie  inn. 

Each  of  them  was  formidably  armed ;  the  booted  he- 
ro presented  at  us  a  phial  —  apparently  of  physic  ;  while 
the  landlord  supported  him  with  a  jug  of  hot  v/ater  !  !  ! 

Not  being  exactly  prepared  to  combat  with  enemies 
armed  after  such  a  fashion,  Woodley  and  myself,  each 
having  a  cocked  pistol  in  our  hands,  reserved  our  fire. 
The  military  ardor  of  the  alderman  was  not  however  so 
easily  repressed ;  for,  no  sooner  v/as  the  door  forced, 
than  he  discharged  his  pistol  at  the  round  target-like 
visage  of  the  landlord,  and,  I  regret  to  say,  with  fatal 
effect  upon  one  of  his  followers,  —  an  unlucky  cur  who 
had  attended  his  master  to  the  assault. 

Boniface,  regardless  of  the  fate  of  his  faithful  dog, 
fell  instantly  upon  his  knees  before  us,  spilling,  in  the 
action,  half  a  pint  of  scalding  vrater  over  the  shins  of 
the  man  of  physic,  who,  thereupon,  executed  a  caper 
worthy  of  Oscar  Byrne. 

All  that  we  could  gather  from  the  nearly  unintelligi- 
ble jargon  which  he  poured  forth,  were  supplications 
for  mercy  and  forgiveness.  Luckily,  at  this  juncture, 
we  were  joined  by  my  interpreter,  who  had  been  roused 
by  the  uproar  and  report  of  the  pistol,  and  had  hurried, 
half  dressed,  to  the  scene  of  action. 

Tlien  followed  an  explanation  by  which  the  mysteri- 
ous events  of  the  evening  were  cleared  up  to  the  satis- 
faction of  all  parties.     The  landlord,  it  nppearcd,  not 


48  AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

being  particularly  rich  in  the  article  of  bottles,  was  in 
the  habit  of  drawing  from  the  cask  such  wine  as  was 
called  for  by  his  guests ;  and,  in  the  case  of  our  second 
supply  of  the  *'  Vintage  of  1789, "  had  used  a  bottle 
which  had  contained  a  mixture  for  poisoning  vermin, 
and  had  not  been  quiet  cleansed  from  its  deleterious 
contents.  On  discovering  the  fatal  error  which  he  had 
committed,  he  sent  off  instantly  for  the  nearest  ^scula- 
pius  ;  fearing  however,  in  the  mean  time,  to  acquaint 
his  guests  with  a  disaster  for  which  he  had  no  remedy  at 
hand. 

The  postilion  of  Woodley's  carriage  had,  as  he  alleg- 
ed, gone  into  the  forest,  in  search  of  his  horse  by  moon- 
light ;  but  on  his  way  met  some  peasants,  who  had  found 
the  animal,  and  were  conducting  it  to  the  inn  ;  and 
whom,  in  acknowledgment  of  their  good  offices  in  the 
recovery  of  his  steed,  he  had  treated  to  some  liquor  in 
the  kitchen,  where  they  were  subsequently  detained  by 
the  violence  of  the  storm.  The  clatter  of  hoofs,  which 
had  added  to  our  alarm,  proceeded  from  the  horse  of 
the  man  of  medicine,  who  came,  in  all  haste,  to  apply 
an  antidote  to  the  poison  which  we  vrere  supposed  to 
have  imbibed. 

The  landlord,  who  had  laid  his  account  with  little 
short  of  being  hanged  for  poisoning  his  guests,  was  over- 
joyed on  hearing  that  we  had  so  providentially  discover- 
ed the  presence  cf  the  poison  in  the  wine,  before  tast- 
ing it ;  nor  had  the  doctor  reason  to  regret  his  being 
called  out,  at  that  unseasonable  hour,  inasmuch  as  he 
received   from   each  of  us  an   acknowledgment  of  his 


AN    ADVE^'TURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN.  49 

zeal  in  hastening  to  ofier  that  aid  of  which  we  were 
happily  not  in  need. 

Ridiculous  as  was  the  termination  of  the  affair,  we 
were  none  of  us  in  a  tone  of  mind  to  laugh  at  it.  Two 
of  our  party  had  escaped  a  horrible  and  untimely  death  ; 
v.'hile  the  alderman  had,  by  the  interposition  of  the 
same  Providence,  been  saved  from  shedding  the  blood 
of  an  innocent  man.  Every  other  feeling  was  merged 
in  thankfulness  for  our  deliverance,  and,  with  mutual 
congratulations,  we  separated  for  our  respective  cham- 
bers. 

A  night  of  tempest  was  succeeded  by  a  glorious 
morning.  The  sun  shone  brightly  upon  the  leaves  of 
the  forest,  yet  dripping  with  the  recent  rain.  The 
birds  were  singing  merrily,  and  they  vrere  not  alone 
in  their  gladness;  for,  when  we  assembled  in  the  little 
room  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  much  alarm, 
there  could  scarcely  have  been  found  four  more  cheer- 
ful countenances  than  those  exhibited  by  the  alderman, 
his  daughter,  the  American,  and  myself. 

On  my  repeating  my  acknowledgments  to  Mr.  Wood- 
ley  for  his  prompt  interference  in  saving  me  from  the 
deadly  potion,  he  replied,  "  Nay  —  we  are  quits;  if  1 
prevented  your  swallowing  poison,  I  am  equally  in- 
debted to  you  for  saving  me  from  the  wolves  and  the 
wild  boars,  and  from  exposure  to  a  tempest  scarcely 
less  to  have  been  dreaded  than  either." 

"And  for  my  part,"  said  the  alderman,  '*  if  I  escape 
poison,  assassination,  and  drowning,  and  return  to  Old 
England,  I  shall  be  glad  to  thank  you,  young  gentlemen  i 
ill  Finsbury  S(juare,  for  your  gallant  behavior." 
c  " 


50  AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

*'  Nay,"  rejoined  the  American,  "  you  are  pleaded  to 
take  our  valor  upon  trust;  and  yet  the  affair  was  not 
altoo-ether  a  bloodless  one." 

*'  Witness  the  unlucky  cur,"  returned  the  ether ; 
"  however,  it  is  well  that  it  was  no  vv'orse." 

It  appearing  from  an  examination  of  the  crazy  vehicle 
which  had  broken  down  with  Mr.  Woodley,  that  the 
necessary  repairs  would  occupy  seme  time,  he  dis- 
charged it,  and,  as  my  route  was  different  from,  that  of 
the  alderman  and  the  American,  the  old  gentleman  of- 
fered him  a  seat  in  his  carriage,  which  was,  of  course, 
thankfully  accepted.  We  parted  with  many  expressions 
of  regard,  and  of  our  desire  to  m.eet  again,  and  I  pur- 
sued my  way  to  Stuttgard. 

If  the  interest  taken  by  my  readers  in  the  young 
republican  be  equal  to  what  he  excited  in  me,  they  vrill 
perhaps  expect  some  further  account  of  him.  His  fate, 
I  regret  to  say,  was  a  melancholy  one,  for  he  had  not 
proceeded  many  stages  with  his  new  acquaintances, 
when  he  was  shot  through  the  heart  by  a  brace  of 
balls  —  eye-balls  I  should  have  said  —  from  under,  the 
silken  lashes  of  the  alderman's  fair  daughter. 

It  was  nearly  a  year  after  this  adventure,  and  some 
months  after  my  return  from  my  continental  tour,  that  I 
found  on  my  table  the  card  of  Mr.  Woodley,  who  had 
called  during  my  temporary  absence  on  a  visit  to  a 
friend  a  short  distance  from  town.  On  returning  his 
call,  I  found  him  established  in  an  exellent  house  in  one 
of  the  squares.  After  some  conversation  on  our  res- 
pective adventures  since  we  parted,  he  suddenly  inter- 
rnpted  me  by  exclaiming,  "  By  the  way,  I  must  intro- 


AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN.  51 

duce  you  to  a  mutual  friend  who  happens  to  be  vv  ith  me 
at  this  time."  He  quitted  the  room  and,  in  a  few  min- 
utes, returned  with  our  fair  companion  of  the  Schwartz- 
wald,  whom  he  introduced  to  me  as  Mrs.  Woodley. 

He  was  justly  proud  of  his  wife,  as  was  the  worthy 
alderman  of  his  son-in-law^ 

For  myself,  the  bitterness  of  the  disappointm.ent 
which  had  driven  me  to  seek  "  consolation  in  travel," 
was  considerably  mitigated  by  the  fact  that  the  gentle 
Julia  Vv^ho  jilted  me  —  she  who  was  wont  to  be  all 
smiles  and  sweetness  —  had  turned  out  a  Tartar  —  in 
other  words,  a  domestic  legislator  —  a  very  Draco. 
She  finally  drove  her  husband  to  that  splendid  refuge 
for  the  henpecked,  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
which  gave  him  an  excuse  for  dining  at  Bellamy's  and 
staying  out  till  tv/elve  o'clock,  five  nights  in  the  week 
during  session.  He  dared  not  have  the  toothache  with- 
out asking  his  wife's  permission. 

I  have  little  to  add.  My  friend  Woodley  had  taken 
a  cottage  at  Box  Hill,  and  asked  me  to  spend  a  month 
with  them.  The  town  was  empty,  and  the  club  heavier 
than  Magog's;  so  I  gladly  accepted  the  invitation. 

Mrs.  Woodley  had  a  cousin,  pretty,  accomplished, 
good-humored,  inid  who  did  not  waltz.  Fanny  and  I 
walked  together,  talked  together,  and  sang  together  ; 
but  still  I  should  have  escaped  the  fatal  noose  —  a  word 
v/hicli  is  applied  literally  to  hanging,  and  figuratively  to 
marrying  —  bctli  go  by  destiny.  Many  a  man  has  been 
driven  to  hang  himself  by  a  dull  day  —  I  was  driven  to 
matrimony  by  the  same  cause.  Fanny  and  I  were  shut 
up  in  the  lil)rary  for  three  hours  —  it  rained  cats  and 


52  AN    ADVENTURE    WITH    AN    AMERICAN. 

dogs  —  the  day  was  dull,  and  our  conversation  grew 
duller;  —  ^\e  had  exhausted  every  topic,  and  for  the 
pure  dearth  of  a  new  subject,  I  proposed  matrimony, 
and  was  accepted.  We  were,  as  tlie  world  says,  made 
for  each  other ;  she  was  just  emancipated  from  the  thral- 
dom of  the  gravest  of  guardians,  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
and  I  was  yet  on  the  sunny  side  of  thirty.  Let  the 
Times  tell  the  rest;  *'  A  set  of  chambers  in  the  Albany 
to  be  let,"  and  —  "Married  at  St.  George's  Hanover 
Square,"  &c.  One  word  more :  I  have  been  married 
three  whole  vreeks,  and,  not  having  repented  my  bar- 
gain, may  justly  be  termed  a  happy  man. 


53 


FAIRIES'  DANCE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


FIRST    FAIRY. 

My  home  and  haunt  are  in  every  leaf, 
Whose  life  is  a  summer  day,  bright  and  brief, 
I  live  in  the  depths  of  the  tulip's  bower, 
I  wear  a  wreath  of  the  cistus  flower, 
I  drink  the  dew  of  the  blue  harebell, 
I  know  the  breath  of  the  violet  well, — 
The  white  and  the  azure  violet : 
But  I  know  not  which  is  the  sweetest  yet, — 
I  have  kiss'd  the  cheek  of  the  rose, 
I  have  watch'd  the  lily  unclose, 
My  silver  mine  is  the  almond  tree. 
Who  will  come  dwell  with  flower  and  me  ? 


CHORUS    OF    FAIRIES. 

Dance  we  our  round,  't  is  a  summer  night. 
And  our  steps  arc  led  by  the  glowworm's  light 

SECOND    FAIRY. 

My  dwelling  is  on  the  serpentine 

Of  the  rainbow's  colored  line  : 

See  how  its  rose  and  amber  clings 

To  the  many  hues  of  my  radiant  wings ; 

Mine  is  the  step  that  bids  the  earth 

Give  to  the  iris  flower  its  birth. 


54  fairies'  dance  by  moonlight. 

And  mine  the  golden  cup  to  hide, 
Where  the  last  faint  hue  of  the  rainbow  died. 
Search  the  depths  of  an  Indian  mine, 
Where  are  the  colors  to  match  with  mine  ? 


Dance  we  round,  for  the  gale  is  bringing 
Songs  the  summer  rose  is  singing. 

THIRD    FAIRY. 

I  float  on  the  breath  of  a  minstrel's  lute. 

Or  the  wandering  sounds  of  a  distant  flute, 

Linger  I  over  the  tones  that  swell 

From  the  pink- veined  chords  of  an  ocean-shell 

I  love  the  skylark's  morning  hymn. 

Or  the  nightingale  heard  at  the  twilight  dim, 

The  echo,  the  fountain's  melody,  — 

These,  O  !  these  are  the  spells  for  me  ! 


CHORUS. 

Hail  to  the  summer  night  of  June  ; 
See  !  yonder  has  risen  our  lady  moon. 


FOURTH    SPIRIT. 

My  palace  is  in  the  coral  cave 

Set  with  spars  by  tiie  ocean  wave ; 

Would  ye  have  gems,  then  seek  them  there, - 

There  found  I  the  pearls  that  bind  my  hair. 

I  and  the  wind  together  can  roam 

Over  the  green  waves  and  their  while  foam  : 

See,  I  have  got  this  silver  shell, 

Mark  how  my  breath  will  its  smallness  swell, 


fairies'  dance  by  moonlight.  55 

For  the  Nautilus  is  ruy  boat 
In  which  I  over  the  waters  float : 
The  moon  is  shining  over  the  sea, 
Who  is  there  will  come  sail  with  me  ? 

CHORUS    OF    FAIRIES. 

Our  noontide  sleep  is  on  leaf  and  flower, 
Our  revels  are  held  in  a  moonlit  hour  : 
What  is  there  sweet,  what  is  there  fair, 
And  we  are  not  the  dwellers  there  ? 
Dance  we  round,  for  the  morning  light 
Will  put  us  and  our  glowworm  lamps  to  flight ! 


5(5 


RECOLLECTIO^^S. 


VK  pleasant  thoughts,  that  memory  brings,  in  moments  free 

from  care, 
Of  a  fairy-like  and  laughing  girl,  with  roses  in  her  hair; 
Her  smile  was  like  the  starlight  of  summer's  softest  skies, 
And  worlds  of  joyousness  there  shone  from  out  her  witching 

eyes. 

Her  looks  were  looks  of  melody,  her  voice  was  like  the  swell 
Of  sudden  music,  gentle  notes,  that  of  deep  gladness  tell; 
She  came  like  spring,  with  pleasant  sounds  of  sweetness  and 

of  mirth, 
And   her   thoughts    were    those    wild,    flowery  thoughts,  that 

linger  not  on  earth. 

A  quiet  goodness  beamed  amid  the  beauty  of  her  face. 
And  all  she  said  and  did  was  with  its  own  instinctive  grace  ; 
She  seemed  as  if  she  thought  the  world  a  good'and  pleasant  one, 
And  her  light  spirit  saw  no  ill  in  aught  beneath  the  sun. 

I've  dreamed  of  just  such  creatures,  but  tliey  never  met  my 

view 
Mid  the  sober,  dull  reality,  in  their  earthly  form  and  hue. 
And  her  smile  came  gently  over  me,  like  spring's  first  scented 

airs. 
And  made  me  tliink  life  was  not  all  a  wilderness  of  cares. 

I  know  not  of  her  destiny,  or  where  her  smile  now  strays. 
But  the  thought  of  her  comes  o'er  me,  with  my  own  lost  sunny 

days. 
With  moonlight  hours,  and  far-off  friends,  and  many  pleasant 

things 
That  have  gone  the  way  of  all  the  earth,  on  Time's  resistless 

winops. 


5/ 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  EXAMPLE. 


WE    LIVE    MORE    BY    EXAMPLE    THAN    REASON." 


Every  one  who  has  attentively  marked  the  formation 
of  character,  will  at  once  acknowledge,  that  man  has 
been  justly  called  an  imitative  creature.     Direct  instruc- 
tion carries  less,  and  example  much  more  weight,  than 
is  usually  imagined.     This  is  best  evinced  by  observing 
that  plastic  period  of  life,  when  both  the  mind  and  the 
manners  are  most  yielding  and  susceptible.     ''  We  are 
all,"  says  Mr.  Locke,  ''  especially  in  youth,  a  kind  of 
chameleons,  that  take  a  tincture  from  the  objects  around 
us."     The  words  of  Seneca  have  gained  the  currency  of 
an  approved  general  maxim  :  —  "  Longum  iter  est  per 
proicepta,  breve  et  efficax  per  exerapla."     Your  way  by 
precepts  is  tedious,  by  examples  short  and  sure.     Were 
our  design  to  point  out  the  influence  which  bad  compa- 
ny has  in  vitiating  and  ensnaring  youth,  the  difficulty 
would  not  be  so  much  in  finding  facts,  as  in  selecting 
and  classifying  them.     We  should  be  bewildered  in  the 
mass  of  materials,  and  demonstration  itself  might  wear 
an  air  of  triteness. 

How  many,  besides  Julius  Caesar  and  Charles  XII.  of 
Sweden,  have  been  roused  by  the  story  of  the  Macedo- 
nian Madman,  to  aspire  after  heroic  fame  !     They  can, 


D 


58  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    EXAMPLE. 

unmoved,  contemplate  the  earth  deluged  with  torrents 
of  blood  and  misery,  so  they  may  but  win  and  wear  the 
wreaths  of  conquest.     Nor  does  it  rarely  happen,  that 
one  fierce,  daring  spirit  inflames  a  multitude,  though  in 
prosecuting  their   wild  career,  they   are  chiefly  distin- 
guished by  petty  exploits  of  mischief  and  extravagance. 
Promptitude  and  energy,  when  joined  with  eccentricity, 
often  act  with  the  power  of  enchantment  on  the  impas- 
sioned minds  of  the  young.     Schiller's  play,  called  the 
Robbers,  was  forbidden  the  stage  in  one  town,  because 
it  was  discovered  that  certain  juvenile  frequenters  of  the 
theatre,  had  been  instigated  by  it  to  bind  themselves  in 
a  secret  confederacy  to  go  out  into  the  woods,  and  live 
the  life  of  freebooters.     Thus  we  see,  that  not  merely 
real  characters,  but  fictitious  also,  which  vividly  repre- 
sent them,  possess  and  exert,  in  no  small  degree,  this 
powerful  species  of  fascination. 

But  there  are  many  who  have  none  of  the  elements  of 
ambition  and  enterprise  in  their  nature,  and  of  course 
can  never  be  spurred  to  daring  deeds.     True  ;  yet,  have 
they  not  other  propensities,  which  expose  them  to  peril 
in  an  opposite  quarter  ?     Are  they  not  liable  to  be  drawn 
into   the   low    haunts  of   gross    sensuality?     Gay    and 
sprightly  triflers  first  hang  out  the  lure  of  pleasure  on 
the  borders  of  forbidden  ground.     Dissipation  and  luxu- 
ry, deadly  and  odious  as  they  are,  and  from  their  nature 
necessarily  must  be,  can  assume  a  fair  and  tempting  ex- 
terior, and  call  the  unwary  with  the  softness  and  melody 
of  a  Siren's  voice.     But  it  is  commonly  example  which 
has  the  greatest  force  of  attraction.     Let  one  crafty  de- 
cov  lead^'the  wav,  and  a  train  of  dupes  easily  follow  to 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    EXAMPLE.  59 

their  own  ruin.  "  He,"  says  the  eloquent  Bishop  Tay- 
lor, "  that  means  to  be  temperate,  and  avoid  the  crime 
and  dishonor  of  being  a  drunkard,  must  not  love  to  par- 
take of  the  songs,  or  bear  a  part  in  the  foolish  scenes  of 
laughter,  which  distract  wisdom,  and  fright  her  from  the 
company," 

There  is  a  vagueness,  a  coldness,  a  bleak  and  wintry 
sterility,  in  the  best  abstract  principles.  We  always 
prefer  a  pattern  to  a  precept;  for  should  both  be  equally 
understood,  which  is  seldom  the  case,  they  are  never 
both  equally  felt.  ''  Verbal  teaching,"  says  Dr.  George 
Campbell,  "  when  in  its  highest  perfection,  comes  as  far 
short  of  good  example,  even  for  conveying  just  ideas  of 
duty,  as  a  verbal  description  of  a  man's  person  to  those 
who  never  saw  him,  would  fall  short  of  a  masterly  por- 
trait or  statue  of  him ;  or  as  the  most  elegant  account 
that  could  be  given  in  words,  of  the  figure,  the  situation, 
and  the  fortifications  of  a  town,  would  fall  short  of  an 
accurate  map  or  model  of  it.  And  again,  if,  in  order  to 
avoid  some  imminent  danger,  or  to  attain  some  valuable 
end,  I  must  climb  a  steep  and  craggy  mountain,  to  ap- 
pearance inaccessible,  or  must  pursue  my  way  through 
some  lone  and  dreary  desert ;  do  but  show  me  the  print 
of  a  human  foot,  or  rather  point  out  others  who  appear 
to  have  successfully  engaged  in  the  same  arduous  enter- 
prise, and  I  shall  sooner  be  prevailed  on  to  attempt  it 
than  by  ten  thousand  arguments." 

Adverting  again  to  the  years  of  childhood,  the  good 
example  of  parents  has  unquestionably  the  most  power- 
ful and  benign  influence;  and  the  very  endearment  and 
tenderness  intimately  connected  with  the  relation,  are 


60  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    EXAMPLE. 

sufficient  to  account  for  it.  In  the  subsequent  stages  of 
human  life,  even  the  recollection  of  those  early  impres- 
sions thrills  the  heart  with  feelings  of  pleasure,  love, 
and  veneration;  and,  wakening  anew,  invest  all  the  ob- 
jects, scenes,  and  sentiments  of  that  interestiug  period, 
with  an  exquisite  and  happy  charm.  "  How  often," 
saith  Bishop  Hall,  ''have  I  blessed  the  memory  of  those 
passages  of  experimental  divinity,  which  I  have  heard 
from  the  mouth  of  my  mother  !  What  day  did  she  pass 
without  being  much  engaged  in  private  devotion  ?  Nev- 
er have  any  lips  read  to  me  such  feeling  lectures  of 
piety,  and  her  life  and  death  were  saint-like."  Here, 
indeed,  we  find  the  inculcation  of  principle,  and  the  ex- 
hibition of  correspondent  practice,  conjointly  touching 
and  affecting  the  opening  faculties  of  the  mind ;  but  it 
is  easy  to  see,  in  the  very  tenure  and  cast  of  the  lan- 
guage employed,  how  much  the  efficacy  of  the  former 
depended  on  the  influence  of  the  latter.  Augustine, 
Hooker,  Flavel,  Cecil,  and  many  others,  have  left  testi- 
monies in  many  respects  similar  to  that  which  has  just 
been  recited.  These  memorials  should  render  Chris- 
tian parents  anxious  to  present  religion  to  their  children 
in  a  lovely  and  engaging  form.  Where  it  is  not  so  pre- 
sented, the  creed  and  the  commandments  are  taught  in 
vain.  I  recollect  reading  of  a  son,  who  once  said  to  his 
father  :   "  I  have  done  evil,  but  I  have  learned  of  you." 

Next  in  importance  after  parents,  must  be  placed  the 
character  and  spirit  of  those  guardians  and  tutors,  to 
whom  the  education  of  youth  is  entrusted.  And  when 
such  as  have  this  high  and  arduous  duty  to  perform,  pos- 
sess qualities  calculated  to  create  and  rivet  attachment, 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    EXAMPLE.  61 

what  happy  effects  may  be  anticipated !  The  most  ap- 
propriate instance  \vhich  occurs  to  my  mind,  for  illus- 
trating this  point,  is  drawn  from  the  life  of  the  amiable 
and  devout  Fenelon.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy,  when 
placed  under  his  care,  was  proud,  perverse,  irritable, 
obstinate,  and  violent.  He  possessed  a  good  capacity, 
and  discovered  a  promptitude  in  acquiring  all  kinds  of 
knowledge  ;  but  the  fierceness  and  turbulence  of  his 
passions  made  him  a  terror  to  all  around  him.  The 
lessons  and  the  life  of  Fenelon  in  a  short  time  effected  an 
extraordinary  change  in  him.  His  talents  v/ere  culti- 
vated and  improved,  his  tempers  were  softened  and  sub- 
dued, and  he  became  not  less  agreeable  as  a  gentleman, 
than  accomplished  as  a  prince.  That  much  was  in  tliis 
case  owing  to  the  wisdom,  dignity,  candor,  and  mildness 
of  his  excellent  tutor,  has  been  readily  admitted  by  all. 
Fenelon  seems  to  have  had  a  singular  power  of  concili- 
ating esteem  and  affection,  by  exhibiting  virtue  and  piety 
arrayed  in  their  most  winning  and  attractive  charms. 
Even  Lord  Peterborough^  the  skeptical  wit,  when  he 
lodged  with  this  prelate,  was  so  interested  in  his  con- 
versation, that  on  his  departure  he  exclaimed,  "  If  I  stay 
here  any  longer,  I  shall  become  a  Christian  in  spite  of 
myself"  But  while  those  who  are  rising  up  in  life  are 
confessedly  much  influenced  by  parents,  guardians,  and 
tutors,  their  characters,  for  the  most  part,  arc  still  more 
modified  by  the  companions  of  their  own  rank  and  nge. 
Ductile  and  pliant,  they  easily  receive  impressions;  ar- 
dent and  unsuspecting,  they  are  more  ready  to  pursue  a 
track  opened  for  them,  than  to  strike  out  one  for  them- 
selves. Our  present  concern  is  not  to  enter  into  any 
D  * 


6*2  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    EXAMPLE. 

philosophical  discussion  of  the  cause  of  this,  but  merely 
to  state  the  fact ;  nor  does  it  appear  of  any  consequence, 
though  some  rare  exceptions  could  be  produced,  while 
the  general  principle  is  established. 

From  what  has  been  above  advanced,  we  may  fairly 
infer,  that  it  is  a  matter  of  the  highest  moment  for  all, 
but  particularly  the  young,  to  choose  those  associates 
whose  good  character  and  good  conduct  have  been  both 
well  known  and  well  tried.  Doubt  and  uncertainty  en 
this  head,  ought  instantly  to  check  and  repress  intima- 
cies, though  they  should  not  form  an  absolute  bar  to  all 
intercourse.  Let  not  this  inference  from  the  reasoning 
of  the  preceding  pages,  be  branded  with  the  charge  of 
monastic  rigor,  or  attributed  to  a  system  cf  discipline 
too  elevated  and  refined  to  be  ever  practicable.  If  the 
value  of  good  example  be  once  admitted,  it  is  a  fair  con- 
clusion that  we  should  be  incessantly  careful  in  tlie  se- 
lection of  our  acquaintance  and  friends.  To  say  or  in- 
sinuate the  contrary,  is  to  allow  in  the  gross  what  is  de- 
nied in  the  detail,  —  to  build  up  with  one  hand,  and  pull 
down  with  tlie  other. 

But  grant  that  friends  are  to  be  chosen  with  due  cau- 
tion and  care,  —  what  then  ?  Wliy,  it  will  fairly  follcv/, 
that  mere  personal  attractions  and  showy  accomplish- 
ments, wit  and  spirit,  humor  and  vivacity,  where  a  sense 
of  delicacy  and  propriety  is  v/anting,  can  set  up  very 
slender  and  inadequate  claims  to  our  regard  ;  —  that  wo 
are  not  to  trust  ourselves  with  persons  whose  prominent 
qualities  please  and  fascinate  only  to  ruin  and  destroy; 
—  and  that  it  is  dangerous  long  to  admire  what  v»g  can- 
not, on  moral  grounds,  really  approve. 


THE    INFLUE>:CE    OF    EXAMPLE.  G3 

But  metliinks  the  sprightly  votary  of  pleasure,  as  yet 
unentangled  in  its  toils,  briskly  replies,  What  then  can 
we  do,  unless  we  had  some  wonder-working  instrument, 
like  the  spear  of  Ithuriel,  to  detect  evil  at  a  touch,  and 
make  every  fiend  under  a  fair  disguise,  start  up  in  his 
own  likeness  in  a  moment  ?  Such  an  instrument  can- 
not be  found  :  but  a  little  good  sense  and  consideration, 
mixed  with  patience,  will  serve  the  purpose,  if  not  so 
speedily,  quite  as  well.  The  warnings  which  age  and 
experience  impart,  are,  at  any  rate,  worthy  to  be  weigh- 
ed. It  is  a  fact,  that  young  people  are  apt  to  be  charm- 
ed with  those  qualities  which  lie  en  the  surface,  which 
glitter  to  the  eye,  or  captivate  the  fancy,  without  taking 
time  or  measures  to  form  any  just  estimate  of  those  at- 
tributes which  alone  give  sterlino;  worth  to  the  character. 
With  more  generosity  than  wisdom,  they  give  an  easy 
credit  to  what  is  plausible;  and  though  assured  that 
counterfeits  abound,  are  usually  too  impatient  and  san- 
guine to  apply  a  test  by  which  they  might  scon  be  de- 
tected and  exposed.  If  the  hints  which  have  been  giv- 
en on  this  subject  arc  accurate,  the  choice  of  fit  associ- 
ates is  of  incalculable  importance  to  young  persons  of 
both  sexes.  Their  principles,  their  tastes,  their  tempers, 
their  habits,  and  pursuits,  are  all  considerably  afiectcd 
and  modified  by  the  company  they  keep. 

The  force  of  good  example  exerts  an  influence  over 
us  in  books  as  well  as  in  society,  though  not  perhaps  in 
an  equal  degree.  TJie  position,  were  it  necessary,  might 
easily  be  sustained  by  facts  ;  but  i'cw,  it  may  be  presum- 
ed, will  require  any  formal  proof  in  a  matter  so  evident. 
Taking  the  point  for  granted,  there  is  therefore  the  same 


64  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    EXAMPLE. 

reason  for  the  exercise  of  a  discriminative  judgment,  and 
a  virtuous  delicacy,  in  fixing  the  preference  we  give  to 
books,  as  to  friends.  He  who  actually  shuns  the  com- 
pany of  debauchees  and  blasphemers,  yet  can  relish  or 
even  endure  lewdness  and  blasphemy  in  the  form  of  a 
novel  or  a  narrative,  has  no  real  love  to  moral  purity. 
Virtue,  with  him,  is  a  thing  of  ceremony  and  show,  of 
interest  and  expediency.  Some  writer  has  said,  "His- 
tory is  philosophy,  teaching  by  example."  The  asser- 
tion would  be  more  correct  as  applied  to  biography  than 
to  history  ;  for  the  latter  is  too  general  to  answer  the 
purpose,  at  least,  with  equal  effect.  Biography,  wisely 
chosen,  supplies  a  kind  of  reading,  peculiarly  interest- 
ing and  advantageous.  It  furnishes  the  best  specimens 
of  excellence  in  every  kind,  the  choicest  products  of 
knowledge  and  wisdom,  virtue  and  piety,  from  every 
soil.  Biography  affords  to  young  people  the  means  of 
forming  a  circle  of  acquaintance,  in  every  respect  un- 
exceptionable. They  can  converse  with  these  freely, 
dismiss  or  recall  them  at  pleasure,  without  giving  of- 
fence ;  receive  their  counsel  and  imbibe  their  spirit, 
without  engendering  suspicion,  or  incurring  the  charge 
of  servility. 

"  How  many  pictures  of  the  bravest  men,"  says  Cice- 
ro, "  have  the  Greek  and  Roman  writers  left  us,  not 
only  to  contemplate,  but  likewise  to  imitate  !  These 
illustrious  models  I  always  set  before  me,  and  have  form- 
ed my  conduct  by  contemplating^  their  virtues."  But 
in  this  age,  and  Christian  country,  we  have  brigiUer 
patterns  of  every  thing  truly  great   and   good,  than   the 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    EXAMPLE.  C5 

philosopher,  whose  language  we  have  here  repeated,  had 
to  boast. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  good  man  may  be  instrumental 
in  diffusing  the  fruits  of  righteousness,  much  further  than 
his  most  sanguine  thoughts  had  anticipated.  Has  he 
genius  and  intellectual  energy  ?  How  powerfully  he 
pleads  the  cause  of  truth  !  While  the  productions  of  Vol- 
taire or  Hume  are  scattering  poison,  his  efforts  are  suc- 
cessfully excited  to  heal  and  purify.  Has  he  wealth  ? 
How  wide  a  surface  does  he  make  it  to  fertilize  and 
cheer!  How  much  pressing  misery  does  he  remove  — 
how  much  positive  good  communicate  !  Has  he  civil 
authority  ?  The  vicious  are  repressed,  the  virtuous  en- 
couraged. In  a  word,  while  he  is  intent  on  supporting 
the  sacred  cause  of  freedom,  or  of  maintaining  and  pro- 
moting, amidst  the  clamor  of  prejudice  and  the  rancor 
of  opposition,  the  claims  of  justice,  of  benevolence,  and 
of  religion,  —  his  energy,  his  firmness,  his  activity, 
his  prudence  and  perseverance,  are  kindling  in  many 
other  bosoms  a  similar  spirit.  His  light  so  shines  be- 
fore men,  that  they  see  his  good  works,  and  glorify  God 
in  the  day  of  visitation.  If  such  be  the  importance  at- 
tached to  example,  how  ought  we  to  watch  and  guard 
our  conduct !  Property  may  be  lost  and  recovered  ;  but 
the  influence  which  character  gives,  if  even  weakened 
and  impaired,  is  seldom  restored.  What  diligence, 
temperance,  and  circumspection,  are  necessary  in  those 
who  draw  many  others  in  their  train  !  Their  virtues  and 
graces  are  strong,  in  exact  proportion  as  they  are  bright 
and  fair.  To  be  eminently  useful,  they  must  be  eminent- 
ly exemplary.     And  can  we  witness  a  more  interesting 


6Q  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    EXAMPLE. 

or  animating  sight,  than  a  good  man  finishing  the  course 
of  life  and  beneficence,  in  cahn  peace  and  unclouded 
joy  ?  Like  a  summer  sun,  he  sinks  below  the  horizon 
and  disappears  :  but  the  excellence  of  his  character  re- 
mains, and  sheds  a  mild  and  lovely  radiance  over  the 
whole  surrounding  scene. 


THE  STARS. 


Oh  !   't  is  lovely  to  watch  ye  at  twilight  rise, 
When  the  last  gleam  fades  in  the  distant  skies, 
When  the  silver  chime  of  the  minster-bell, 
And  the  warbling  fount  in  the  woodland  dell. 
And  the  viewless  sounds  in  the  upper  air, 
Proclaim  the  hour  of  prayer  ! 

Then  ye  shine  in  beauty  above  the  sea, 
Bright  wanderers  over  the  blue  sky  free  ! 
Catching  the  tone  of  each  sighing  breeze. 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  forest-trees, 
Or  the  far-off  voice,  through  the  quiet  dim. 
Of  some  hamlet's  hymn  ! 

And  the  midnight  too,  all  still  and  lone  ! 
Ye  guard  in  beauty,  from  many  a  throne  ! 
In  your  silver  silence  throughout  the  hour, 
Watching  the  rest  of  each  folded  flower. 
Gladdening  with  visions  each  infant's  sleep, 
Through  the  niglit-honr  dorp  ' 


THE    STARS.  Q7 

Yes,  ye  look  over  Nature's  hushed  repose, 
By  the  forest  still  where  the  streamlet  flows, 
By  the  breezeless  hush  of  many  a  plain. 
And  the  pearly  flow  of  the  silver  main, 
Or  sweetly  far  o'er  some  chapel-shrine 
Of  the  olden  time  ! 

Thus  in  shadeless  glory  ye  onvv^ards  roll. 
Bright  realms  of  beauty,  from  Pole  to  Pole  ! 
'Midst  the  vaulted  space  where  your  bright  paths  lie. 
In  the  hidden  depths  of  the  midnight  sky, 
To  some  far-off  land,  —  to  some  distant  home, 
'Neath  the  ocean's  foam  ! 

But,  hark  !  the  far  voice  of  the  waking  sea, 
And  the  dim  dew  rising  o'er  lawn  and  lea, 
.And  the  first  faint  tinge  of  the  early  day, 
Shining  afar  o'er  the  ocean-spray  ! 
Oh,  ye  that  have  been  as  a  power  and  a  spell. 

Through  the  dim  midnight !  —  Farewell ! 


68 


TO  AN  ABSENT  FRIEND. 


Thou  art  not  gone  ;  thou  could'st  not  go 

True  friends  can  never  part : 
Our  prayer  is  one,  our  hope  is  one, 

And  we  are  one  in  heart  ! 
Nor  place,  nor  time,  can  e'er  divide 

The  souls  wrhich  friendship  seals  ; 
But  stiil  the  changing  scenes  of  life 

Their  mutual  love  reveals. 


Body  from  body  may  be  placed 

Remote  as  pole  from  pole  ; 
But  can  our  fleshly  frailties  bind 

The  fellowship  of  soul  ? 
'T  is  when  removed  from  grosser 

My  spirit  claims  her  right ; 
My  friend  is  often  least  away 

When  absent  from  my  sight. 


His  form  and  look,  in  memory's  glass, 

I  still  distinctly  see  : 
His  voice  and  words,  in  fancy's  car. 

Are  whispering  still  to  me. 
The  stars  which  meet  liis  pensive  eye 

Are  present  still  to  mine  ; 
The  moonlights,  which  surround  his  path, 

Around  my  footsteps  shine. 


TO    AN   ABSENT    FR.IEND.  G'J 

Beneath  the  same  fair  dome  we  dwell, 

By  the  same  Hand  are  fed ; 
And,  pilgrims  in  one  narrow  way. 

Are  by  one  Spirit  led  ! 
To  the  Great  presence  of  our  God, 

By  hourly  faith  we  come  ; 
And  find  in  sweet  communion  there. 

One  everlastino-  home  ! 


Our  hope,  our  joy,  our  life,  our  soul. 

In  our  ONE  Saviour  meet; 
And  what  in  earth  or  heaven  shall  break 

A  union  so  complete  ? 
O  !  blest  are  they  who  seek  in  Him 

A  union  to  their  friend ; 
Their  love  shall  grow  througli  life's  decay, 

And  live  when  life  shall  end 


And  blest  be  He  whose  love  bestows 

A  friendship  so  divine. 
And  makes,  by  oneness  with  Himself, 

My  friend  for  ever  mine  ! 


70 


HALLORAN  THE  PEDLER. 


AN    IRISH    STORY. 


"  It  grieves  me,"  said  an  eminent  poet  once  to  me,  "  it 
grieves  and  humbles  me  to  reflect  how  much  our  moral 
nature  is  in  the  power  of  circumstances.  Our  best 
faculties  would  remain  unknown  even  to  ourselves  did 
not  the  influences  of  external  excitement  call  them  forth 
like  animalcule,  which  lie  torpid  till  wakened  into  life 
by  the  transient  sunbeam." 

This  is  generally  true.  How  many  walk  through  the 
beaten  paths  of  every  day  life,  who  but  for  the  novelist's 
page  v/ould  never  weep  or  wonder ;  and  who  would 
know  nothing  of  the  passions  but  as  they  are  represent- 
ed in  some  tragedy  or  stage  piece  ?  not  that  they  are 
incapable  of  high  resolve  and  energy ;  but  because  the 
finer  qualities  have  never  been  called  forth  by  imperious 
circumstances  ;  for  while  the  wheels  of  existence  roll 
smoothly  along,  the  soul  will  continue  to  slumber  in 
her  vehicle  like  a  lazy  traveller.  But  for  the  French 
revolution,  how  many  hundreds — thousrmds  —  whose 
courage,  fortitude  and  dcvotedness  have  sanctified  their 
names,  would  have  frittered  away  a  frivolous,  useless,  or 
vicious  life  in  the  saloons  of  Paris  !     We  have  heard  of 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  71 

death  in  its  most  revolting  forms  braved  by  delicate  fe- 
males, who  would  have  screamed  at  the  sight  of  the 
most  insignificant  reptile  or  insect ;  and  men  cheerfully 
toiling  at  mechanic  trades  for  bread  who  had  lounged 
away  the  best  years  of  their  lives  at  the  toilettes  of  their 
mistresses.  We  know  not  of  what  we  are  capable  till 
the  trial  comes;  —  till  it  comes,  perhaps,  in  a  form 
which  makes  the  strong  man  quail,  and  turns  the  gen- 
tler woman  into  a  heroine. 

The  power  of  outward  circumstances  suddenly  to 
awaken  dormant  faculties  —  the  extraordinary  influence 
which  the  mere  instinct  of  self-preservation  can  exert 
over  the  mind,  and  the  triumph  of  mind  thus  excited 
over  physical  weakness,  were  never  more  truly  exemp- 
lified than  in  the  story  of  Halloran  the  Pedler. 

The  real  circumstances  of  this  singular  case,  diiTering 
essentially  from  the  garbled  and  incorrect  account 
which  appeared  in  the  newspapers  some  years  ago,  came 
to  my  knowledge  in  the  following  simple  manner.  My 
cousin  George  C  *  *  *,  an  Irish  barrister  of  some  stand- 
ing, lately  succeeded  to  his  family  estates  by  the  death 
of  a  near  relative ;  and  no  sooner  did  he  find  himself 
in  possession  of  independence  than,  abjuring  the  bar, 
where,  after  twenty  years  of  hard  struggling,  he  was 
just  beginning  to  make  a  figure,  he  set  off  on  a  tour 
through  Italy  and  Greece,  to  forget  the  wrangling  of 
courts,  the  contumely  of  attorneys,  and  the  impatience 
of  clients.  He  left  in  my  hands  a  mass  of  papers,  to 
burn  or  not,  as  I  might  feel  inclined  :  and  truly  the 
contents  of  his  desk  were  no  bad  illustration  of  the 
character  and  pursuits  of  its  owner.     Here  I  found  ab- 


72  HALLO RAN    THE    PEDLER. 

stracts  of  cases,  and  on  their  backs  copies  of  verses, 
sketches  of  scenery,  and  numerous  caricatures  of 
judges,  jurymen,  witnesses,  and  his  brethren  of  the  bar, 
—  a  bundle  of  old   briefs,  and  the  beginnings  of  two 

tragedies ;  with  a  long  list  of  Lord  N 's  best  jokes 

to  serve  his  purposes  as  occasion  might  best  offer. 
Among  these  heterogeneous  and  confused  articles  were 
a  number  of  scraps  carefully  pinned  together,  containing 
notes  on  a  certain  trial,  the  first  in  which  he  had  been 
retained  as  counsel  for  the  crown.  The  intense  interest 
with  which  I  perused  these  documents,  suggested  the 
plan  of  throwing  the  whole  into  a  connected  form,  and 
here  it  is  for  the  reader's  benefit. 

In  the  south  part  of  the  county  of  Kilkenny  lived  a 
poor  peasant  named  Michael,  or,  as  it  was  elegantly 
pronounced,  Mickle  Reilly.  He  was  a  laborer  renting 
a  cabin  and  a  little  potatoe-ground  ;  and  on  the  strength 
of  these  possessions,  a  robust  frame  which  feared  no 
fatigue,  and  a  sanguine  mind  which  dreaded  no  reverse, 
Reilly  paid  his  addresses  to  Cathleen  Bray,  a  young 
girl  of  his  own  parish,  and  they  were  married.  Reilly 
was  able,  skilful,  and  industrious;  Cathleen  was  the 
best  spinner  in  the  county ;  and  had  constant  sale  for 
her  work  at  Kilkenny  :  they  wanted  nothing ;  and  for 
the  first  year,  as  Cathleen  said,  "  There  wasn't  upon  the 
blessed  earth  two  happier  souls  than  themselves,  for 
Mick  was  the  best  boy  in  the  world,  and  hadn't  a  fault 
to  spahc  of — barring  he  took  the  drop  now  and  then  ; 
an'  why  wouldn't  he?  "  But  as  it  happened,  poor 
Reilly's  love  of  "  the  drop  "  was  the  beginning  of  all 
their  misfortunes.     In  an  evil  hour  he  went  to  the  Fair 


IIALLORAN    THE    PEDLER. 


of  Kilkenny  to  sell  a  dozen  hanks  of  yarn  of  his  wife's 
spinning,  and  a  fat  pig,  the  produce  of  which  was  to 
pay  half  a  year's  rent,  and  add  to  their  little  comforts. 
Here  he  met  with  a  jovial  companion,  who  took  him 
into  a  booth,  and  treated  him  to  sundry  potations  of 
whiskey;  and  while  in  his  company,  his  pocket  was 
picked  of  the  money  he  had  just  received,  and  something 
more ;  in  short,  of  all  he  possessed  in  the  world.  At 
that  luckless  moment,  while  maddened  by  his  loss  and 
heated  with  liquor,  he  fell  into  the  company  of  a  re- 
cruiting Serjeant.  The  many-colored  and  gaily  flutter- 
ing cockade  in  the  soldier's  cap  shone  like  a  rainbow  of 
hope  and  promise  before  the  drunken  eyes  of  Mickle 
Reilly,  and  ere  morning  he  was  enlisted  into  a  regiment 
under  orders  for  embarkation,  and  instantly  sent  off  to 
Cork. 

Distracted  by  the  ruin  he  had  brought  upon  himself, 
and  his  wife  (whom  he  loved  a  thousand  times  better 
than  himself)  poor  Reilly  sent  a  friend  to  inform  Cath- 
leen  of  his  mischance,  and  to  assure  her  that  on  a  cer- 
tain day,  in  a  week  from  that  time,  a  letter  would  await 
her  at  the  Kilkenny  post-office  :  the  same  friend  was 
commissioned  to  deliver  her  his  silver  watch,  and  a  gui- 
nea out  of  his  bounty-money.  Poor  Cathleen  turned 
from  the  gold  with  horror,  as  the  price  of  her  husband's 
blood,  and  vowed  that  nothing  on  earth  should  induce 
her  to  touch  it.  She  was  not  a  good  calculator  of  time 
and  distance,  and  therefore  rather  surprised  that  so  long 
a  time  must  elapse  before  his  letter  arrived.  On  the  ap- 
pointed day  she  was  too  impatient  to  wait  the  arrival  of 
the  carrier,  but  set  ofi"to  Kilkenny  herself,  a  distance  of 


74  HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER. 

ten  miles :  there,  at  the  post-office,  she  duly  found  the 
promised  letter:  but  it  was  not  till  she  had  it  in  her  pos- 
session that  she  remembered  she  could  not  read :  she 
had  therefore  to  hasten  back  to  consult  her  friend  Nan- 
cy, the  schoolmaster's  daughter,  and  the  best  scholar  in 
the  village.  Reilly's  letter,  on  being  deciphered  with 
some  difficulty  even  by  the  learned  Nancy,  was  found  to 
contain  much  of  sorrow,  much  of  repentance,  and  yet 
more  of  affection  ;  he  assured  her  that  he  was  far  better 
off  than  he  expected  or  deserved;  that  the  embarkation 
of  the  regiment  to  which  he  belonged  was  delayed  for 
three  weeks,  and  entreated  her,  if  she  could  forgive  him, 
to  follow  him  to  Cork  without  delay,  that  they  might 
"  part  in  love  and  kindness,  and  then  come  what  might, 
he  would  demane  himself  like  a  man,  and  die  asy," 
which  he  assured  her  he  could  not  do  without  embracing 
her  once  more. 

Cathleen  listened  to  her  husband's  letter  with  clasped 
hands  and  drawn  breath,  but  quiet  in  her  nature,  she 
gave  no  other  signs  of  emotion  than  a  few  large  tears 
which  trickled  slowly  down  her  cheeks.  "  And  will  I  see 
him  again  ?"  she  exclaimed,  "  poor  fellow  !  poor  boy  !  I 
knew  the  heart  of  him  was  sore  for  me  !  and  who  knows, 
Nancy  dear,  but  they  '11  let  me  go  out  with  him  to  the 
foreign  parts  ?  Oh !  sure  they  would  n't  be  so  hard- 
hearted as  to  part  man  and  wife  that  way  !  " 

After  a  hurried  consultation  with  her  neighbors,  who 
sympathised  with  her  as  only  the  poor  sympathise  with 
the  poor,  a  letter  was  indited  by  Nancy  and  sent  by  the 
Kilkcnney  carrier  that  night,  to  inform  her  husband 
that  she  purposed  setting  of>'  for  Cork  the  next  blessed 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  75 

morning,  being  Tuesday,  and  as  the  distance  was  about 
forty-eight  miles,  she  reckoned  on  reaching  that  city  by 
Wednesday  afternoon  ;  for  as  she  had  walked  to  Kilken- 
ney  and  back  (about  twenty  miles)  that  same  day,  with- 
out feeling  fatigued  at  all,  "  to  signify^''^  Cathleen 
thought  there  would  be  no  doubt  that  she  could  walk  to 
Cork  in  less  than  two  days.  In  this  sanguine  calcula- 
tion she  was  however  over-ruled  by  her  more  experienced 
neighbors,  and  by  their  advice  appointed  Thursday  as 
the  day  on  which  her  husband  was  to  expect  her,  ''  God 
willing." 

Cathleen  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  making  prepa- 
rations for  her  journey ;  she  set  her  cabin  in  order,  and 
made  a  small  bundle  of  a  few  articles  of  clothing  be- 
longing to  herself  and  her  husband.  The  watch  and 
the  guinea  she  wrapped  up  together  and  crammed  into 
the  toe  of  an  old  shoe  which  she  deposited  in  the  said 
bundle,  and  the  next  morning,  at  "  sparrow  chirp,"  she 
arose,  locked  her  cabin  door,  carefully  hid  the  key  in 
the  thatch,  and  with  a  light  expecting  heart  commenced 
her  long  journey. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  this  poor  woman  who  was 
called  upon  to  play  the  heroine  in  such  a  strange  trage- 
dy and  under  such  appalling  circumstances,  had  nothing 
heroic  in  her  exterior  :  nothing  that  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree indicated  strength  of  nerve  or  superiority  of  intel- 
lect. Cathleen  was  twenty-three  years  of  age,  of  a  low 
stature,  and  in  her  form  rather  delicate  than  robust :  — 
she  was  of  ordinary  appearance ;  her  eyes  mild  and 
dove-like,  and  her  whole  countenance,  though  not  abso- 
lutely deficient  in  intelligence,  was  more  particularly  ex- 


76  HALLORAN    THE    PEDLKR. 

pressive  of  simplicity,  good  temper,  and  kindness  of 
heart. 

It  was  summer,  about  the  end  of  June  :  the  days  were 
long,  the  weather  fine,  and  some  gentle  showers  render- 
ed travelling  easy  and  pleasant.  Cathleen  walked  on 
stoutly  towards  Cork,  and  by  the  evening  she  had  ac- 
complished, with  occasional  pauses  of  rest,  nearly  twen- 
ty-one miles.  She  lodged  at  a  little  inn  by  the  road 
side,  and  the  following  day  set  forward  again,  but  soon 
felt  stiff  with  the  travel  of  two  previous  days  :  the  sun 
became  hotter,  the  ways  dustier  ;  and  she  could  not 
with  all  her  endeavors  get  further  than  Kathery,  eigh- 
teen miles  from  Cork.  The  next  day,  unfortunately  for 
poor  Cathleen,  proved  hotter  and  more  fatiguing  than 
the  preceding.  The  cross  road  lay  over  a  wild  country, 
consisting  of  low  bogs  and  bare  hills.  About  noon  she 
turned  aside  to  a  rivulet  bordered  by  a  few  trees,  and, 
sitting  down  in  the  shade,  she  bathed  her  swollen  feet 
in  the  stream,  when,  overcome  by  heat,  weakness,  and 
excessive  weariness,  she  put  her  little  bundle  under  her 
head  for  a  pillow,  and  sunk  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking  she  perceived  with  dismay  that  the  sun 
was  declining  ;  and,  on  looking  about,  her  fears  were 
increased  by  the  discovery  that  her  bundle  was  gone. 
Her  first  thought  was  that  the  good  people,  (i.  e.  the 
fairies)  had  been  there  and  stolen  it  away ,  but  on  ex- 
amining further  she  plainly  perceived  large  foot-prints 
in  the  soft  bank  and  was  convinced  it  was  the  work  of 
no  unearthly  marauder.  Bitterly  reproaching  herself  for 
her  carelessness,  she  again  set  forward  ;  and  still  hoping 
to  reach  Cork  that  night,  she  toiled  on  and  on  with  in- 


IIALLORAN    THE    TEDLER.  77 

creasing  difliculty  and  distress,  till  as  the  evening  closed 
her  spirits  failed,  she  became  faint,  foot-sore  and  hungry, 
not  having  tasted  any  thing  since  the  morning  but  a  cold 
potatoe  and  a  draught  of  buttermilk.  She  then  looked 
round  her  in  hopes  of  discovering  some  habitation,  but 
there  was  none  in  sight  except  a  lofty  castle  on  a  distant 
hill,  which  raising  its  proud  turrets  from  amidst  the  plan- 
tations which  surrounded  it,  glimmered  faintly  through 
the  gathering  gloom,  and  held  out  no  temptation  for  the 
poor  wanderer  to  turn  in  there  and  rest.  In  h?r  despair 
she  sat  her  down  on  a  bank  by  the  road  side,  and  wept 
as  she  thought  of  her  husband. 

Several  horsemen  rode  by,  and  one  carriage  and  four 
attended  by  servants,  who  took  no  further  notice  of  her 
than  by  a  passing  look ;  while  they  went  on  their  way 
like  the  priest  and  the  Levite  in  the  parable,  poor  Cath- 
leen  dropped  her  head  despairingly  on  her  bosom.  A 
faintness  and  torpor  seemed  to  be  stealing  like  a  dark 
cloud  over  her  senses,  when  the  fast  approaching  sound 
of  footsteps  roused  her  attention,  and  turning,  she  saw 
at  her  side  a  man  whose  figure,  though  singular,  she  rec- 
ognized immediately  :  it  was  Halloran  the  Pedler. 

Halloran  had  been  known  for  thirty  years  past  in  all 
the  towns  and  villages  between  Water  ford  and  Kerry. 
He  was  very  old,  he  himself  did  not  know  his  own  age  ; 
he  only  remembered  that  he  was  a  "  tall  slip  of  a  boy  " 

when   he  was  one  of  the regiment  of    foot,   and 

fought  in  America  in  1778.  His  dress  was  strange,  it 
consisted  of  a  woollen  cap,  beneath  which  strayed  a  few 
white  hairs,  this  was  surmounted  by  an  old  military 
cocked  hat,  adorned  with  a  few  fragments  of  tarnished 


78  IIALLORAN    THE    PEDLER. 

gold  lace:  a  frieze  great  coat  with  the  sleeves  dangling 
behind,  was  fastened  at  his  throat,  and  served  to  protect 
his  box  of  wares  which  was  slung  at  his  back;  and  he 
always  carried  a  thick  oak  stick  or  Idppeen  in  his  hand. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  infirmity  of  age  in  his  appear- 
ance :  his  cheek,  though  wrinkled  and  weather-beaten, 
was  still  ruddy  :  his  step  still  firm,  his  eyes  still  bright ; 
his  jovial  disposition  made  him  a  welcome  guest  in  every 
cottage,  and  his  jokes,  though  not  equal  to  my  Lord  Nor. 
bury's,  were  repeated  and  applauded  through  the  whole 
country.  Hallorc.n  w^as  returning  from  the  fair  of  Kil- 
kenny, where  apparently  his  commercial  speculations  had 
been  attended  with  success,  as  his  back  was  considera. 
bly  diminished  in  size.  Though  he  did  not  appear  to 
recollect  Cathleen,  he  addressed  her  in  Irish,  and  asked 
her  what  she  did  there :  she  related  in  a  {ew  words  her 
miserable  situation. 

"  In  throth,  then,  my  heart  is  sorry  for  ye,  poor  wo- 
man," he  replied  compassionately  ;  "  and  what  will  ye 
do?" 

"  An' what  can  I  do?"  replied  Cathleen,  disconso- 
ately ;  "  and  how  will  I  even  find  the  ford  of  Ahnmoe 
and  get  across  to  Cork,  when  I  do  'nt  know  where  I  am 
this  blessed  moment  ?  " 

*' Musha,  then,  its  little  ye '11  get  there  this  night," 
said  the  pcdler,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Then  I '11  lie  down  here  and  die,"  said  Cathleen, 
bursting  into  fresh  tears. 

"  Die!  ye  would 'nt!  "  he  exclaimed,  approaching 
nearer  ;  *'  is  it  to  me,  Peter  Ilalloran,  ye  spake  that  word  ; 
and  am  T  the  man  that  would  lave  a  famale  at  this  dark 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  79 

hour  by  the  way  side,  let  alone  one  that  has  the  face 
of  a  friend,  tliough  I  cannot  remember  me  of  your 
name  either,  for  the  soul  of  me.  But  what  matter  for 
that?" 

"  Sure  I'm  Katty  Reilly,  of  Castle  Conn." 

*'  Katty  Reilly,  sure  enough  !  and  so  no  more  talk  of 
dying;  cheer  up,  and  see,  a  mile  further  on,  isn't  there 
Biddy  Hogan's  ?  Was,  I  mane,  if  the  house  and  all  isn't 
gone  :  and  its  there  we  '11  get  a  bite  and  a  sup,  and  a  bed, 
too,  please  God.  So  lean  upon  my  arm,  ma  vourneen, 
its  strong  enough  yet." 

So  saying,  the  old  man  with  an  air  of  gallantry,  half 
rustic,  half  military,  assisted  her  in  rising;  and  support- 
ing her  on  one  arm,  with  the  other  he  flourished  his  kip- 
peen  over  his  head,  and  they  trudged  on  together  he  sing- 
ing Cruiskeen  lawn  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "■  just,"  as 
he  said,  "  to  put  the  heart  into  her." 

After  about  half  an  hour's  walking,  they  came  to  two 
crossways,  diverging  from  the  high  road  :  down  one  of 
these  the  Pedler  turned,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  came 
in  sight  of  a  lonely  house,  situated  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  way-side.  Above  the  door  was  a  long  stick 
projecting  from  the  wall,  at  the  end  of  which  dangled  a 
truss  of  straw,  signifying  that  within  there  was  enter- 
tainment (good  or  bad)  for  man  and  beast.  By  this 
time  it  was  nearly  dark,  and  the  pedler  going  up  to  the 
door,  lifted  the  latch,  expecting  it  to  yield  to  his  hand  ; 
but  it  was  fastened  within  :  he  then  knocked  and  called, 
but  there  was  no  answer.  The  building  which  was 
many  times  larger  than  an  ordinary  cabin  had  once  been 
a  manufactory,  and  afterwards  a  farm-house.     One  end 


80  HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER. 

of  it  was  deserted,  and  nearly  in  ruins  ;  the  other  end 
bore  signs  of  having  been  at  least  recently  inhabited. 
But  such  a  dull  hollow  echo  rung  through  the  edifice  at 
every  knock  that  it  seemed  the  whole  place  was  now 
deserted. 

Cathleen  began  to  be  alarmed,  and  crossed  herself, 
ejaculating,  "  O  God  preserve  us  !  "  But  the  Pedlar, 
who  appeared  well  acquainted  with  the  premises,  led  her 
round  to  the  back  part  of  the  house,  where  there  were 
some  ruined  out-buildings,  and  another  low  entrance. 
Here  raising  his  stout  stick,  he  let  fall  such  a  heavy 
thump  on  the  door  that  it  cracked  again  ;  and  a  shrill 
voice  from  the  other  side  demanded  who  was  there  ? 
After  a  satisfactory  answer,  the  door  was  slowly  and 
cautiously  opened,  and  the  figure  of  a  wrinkled,  half 
famished  and  half  naked  beldam  appeared,  shading  a 
rush  light  with  one  hand.  Halloran,  who  was  of  a  fiery 
and  hasty  temper,  began  angrily:  "  Why,  then,  in  the 
name  of  the  great  devil  himself,  did  n't  you  open  to  us  ?" 
But  he  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  struck  with  surprise  at 
the  miserable  object  before  him. 

"  Is  it  Biddy  Hogan  herself,  I  see !"  he  exclaimed, 
snatching  the  candle  from  her  hand,  and  throwing  the 
light  full  on  her  face.  A  moment's  scrutiny  seemed 
enough,  and  too  much ;  for,  giving  it  back  hastily,  he 
supported  Cathleen  into  the  kitchen,  the  old  woman 
leading  the  way,  and  placed  her  on  an  old  settle,  the 
first  seat  which  presented  itself.  When  she  was  suffi- 
ciently recovered  to  look  about  her,  Cathleen  could  not 
help  feeling  some  alarm  at  finding  herself  in  so  gloomy 
and  dreary  a  place.     It  had  once  been  a  large  kitchen. 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  81 

or  hall  :  at  one  end  was  an  ample  chimney,  such  as  are 
yet  to  be  seen  in  some  old  country  houses.  The  rafters 
were  black  with  smoke  or  rottenness  :  the  walls  had 
been  wainscoated  with  oak,  but  the  greatest  part  had 
been  torn  down  for  firing.  A  table  with  three  legs,  a 
large  stool,  a  bench  in  the  chimney  propped  up  with  turf 
sods,  and  the  seat  Cathleen  occupied,  formed  the  only 
furniture.  Every  thing  spoke  utter  misery,  filth,  and 
famine  —  the  very  "abomination  of  desolation." 

"  And  what  have  ye  in  the  house,  Biddy,  honey  ?" 
was  the  Pedler's  first  question,  as  the  old  woman  set 
down  the  light. 

"  Little  enough,  I  'm  thinking." 

"  Little  !     Its  nothing  then." 

"  No,  not  so  much  as  a  midge  would  eat  have  I  in 
the  house  this  blessed  night,  and  nobody  to  send  down 
to  Balgowna." 

"  No  need  of  that,  as  our  good  luck  would  have  it," 
said  Halloran,  and  pulling  a  wallet  from  under  his  loose 
coat,  he  drew  from  it  a  bone  of  cold  meat,  a  piece  of 
bacon,  a  lump  of  bread,  and  some  cold  potatoes.  The 
old  woman,  roused  by  the  sight  of  so  much  good  cheer, 
began  to  blov/  up  the  dying  embers  on  the  hearth  ;  put 
down  among  them  the  few  potatoes  to  warm,  and 
busied  herself  in  making  some  little  preparations  to  en- 
tertain her  guests.  Meantime  the  old  Pedler,  casting 
from  time  to  time  an  anxious  glance  towards  Cathleen, 
and  now  and  then  an  encouraging  word,  sat  down  on  the 
low  stool,  resting  his  arms  on  his  knees. 

"  Times  arc  sadly  changed  with  ye,  Biddy  Hogan," 
said  he  at  lencrth,  after  a  lonji  silence. 


&*i  HAI.LOPvAN    THE    PEDLKR. 

"Troth,  ye  may  say  so;"  she  replied  with  a  sort  of 
groan.  "  Bitter  bad  luck  have  we  had  in  this  world, 
any  how," 

"  And  where's  the  man  of  the  house?  And  where's 
the  lad,  Barny?" 

*' Where  are  they,  is  it?  Where  should  they  be? 
may  be  gone  down  to  Ahnamoe." 

"  But  what's  come  of  Barny  ?  The  boy  was  a  stout 
workman,  and  a  good  son,  though  a  devil-may-care  fel- 
low, too.  I  remember  teaching  him  the  soldiers'  ex- 
ercise with  this  very  blessed  stick  nov/  in  my  hand  ;  and 
by  the  same  token,  him  doubling  his  fist  at  me  when  he 
was  n't  bigger  than  the  turf-kish  yonder ;  ay,  and  as 
long  as  Barney  Hogan  could  turn  a  sod  of  turf  on  my 
lord's  land,  I  thought  his  father  and  mother  would  nev- 
er have  wanted  the  bit  and  sup  while  the  life  was  in 
him." 

At  the  mention  of  her  son,  the  old  woman  looked  up 
a  moment,  but  immediately  hung  her  head  again. 

*'  Barny  does  n't  v/ork  for  my  lord  now,"  said  she. 

"And  what  for  then?" 

The  old  woman  seemed  reluctant  to  answer  —  she 
hesitated. 

''  Ye  did  n't  hear,  then,  how  he  got  into  trouble  with 
my  lord  ;  and  how  —  myself  doesn't  know  the  rights  of 
it  —  but  Barny  had  always  a  bit  of  wild  blood  about 
him;  and  since  that  day  he's  taken  to  bad  ways,  and 
the  ould  man's  ruled  by  him  quite  entirely ;  and  the 
one's  glum  and  fierce  like  —  and  t'other's  bothered; 
and,  oh  !   bitter's  the  time  I  have  twixt  'em  both  !" 

While   the   old    v/oman    was    ut(erinp-    the'='e    broken 


HALLORAN    THE    TEDLER.  83 

complaints,  she  placed  the  eatables  en  the  table;  nid 
Cathleen,  who  was  yet  more  faint  from  hunger  than  sub- 
dued by  fatigue,  was  first  helped  by  the  good-natured 
Pedler  to  the  best  of  what  was  there  :  but,  just  as  she 
was  about  to  taste  the  food  set  before  her,  she  chanced 
to  see  the  eyes  of  the  old  \loman  fixed  upon  the  morsel 
in  her  hand  with  such  an  envious  and  famished  look, 
that  from  a  sudden  impulse  of  benevolent  feeling,  she 
instantly  held  it  out  to  her.  The  woman  started,  drew 
back  her  extended  hand,  and  gazed  at  her  wildly. 

'*  What  is  it  then  ails  ye?  "  said  Cathleen,  looking  at 
her  with  wonder;  then  to  herself,  "  hunger's  turned  the 
wits  of  her,  poor  soul!  Take  it  — take  it,  mother," 
added  she  aloud:  "eat,  good  mother;  sure  there's 
plenty  for  us  all,  and  to  spare,"  and  she  pressed  it  upon 
her  with  all  the  kindness  of  her  nature.  The  old  wc- 
man  eagerly  seized  it. 

"  God  reward  ye,"  said  she,  grasping  Cathleen's  hand, 
convulsively,  and  retiring  to  a  corner,  she  devoured 
the  food  with  almost  wolfish  voracity. 

While  they  were  eating,  the  two  Hogans,  father  and 
son,  came  in.  They  had  been  setting  snares  for  rabbits 
and  game  on  the  neighboring  hills;  and  evidently  were 
both  startled  and  displeased  to  find  the  house  occupied  ; 
which,  since  Barny  liogan's  disgrace  with  "  my  lord," 
had  been  entirely  shunned  by  the  people  round  about. 
The  old  man  gave  the  pedler  a  sulky  welcome.  The 
son,  with  a  muttered  curse,  went  and  took  his  scat  in 
the  chimney,  where,  turning  his  back,  he  set  himself  to 
chop  a  billet  of  wood.  The  father  was  a  lean  stooping 
figure,  "  bony,  and   gaunt,  and  grim  :  "   he   was  either 


84  HALLORAN    THE    PEDLI.R- 

deaf,  or  affected  deafness.  The  son  was  a  short,  braw- 
ny, thickset  man,  with  features  not  naturally  ugly,  but 
rendered  worse  than  ugly  by  an  expression  of  louring 
ferocity  disgustingly  blended  with  a  sort  of  stupid 
drunken  leer,  the  effect  of  habitual  intoxication. 

Halloran  stared  at  them  awhile  with  visible  astonish- 
ment and  indignation,  but  pity  and  sorrow  for  a  change 
so  lamentable,  smothered  the  old  man's  wrath  ;  and  as 
the  eatables  were  by  this  time  demolished,  he  took  from 
his  side  pocket  a  tin  flask  of  whiskey,  calling  to  the 
old  woman  to  boil  some  water  "  screeching  hot,"  that 
he  might  make  what  he  termed  "  a  jug  of  stiff  punch 
—  enough  to  make  a  cat  spakcJ'  He  offered  to  share 
it  with  his  hosts,  who  did  not  decline  drinking ;  and 
the  noo-ffin  went  round  to  all  but  Cathleen,  who,  fever- 
ish  with  travelling,  and,  besides,  disliking  spirits,  W'Ould 
not  taste  it.  The  old  Pedler,  reconciled  to  his  old  ac- 
quaintances by  this  show  of  good  fellowship,  began  to 
grow  merry  under  the  influence  of  his  whiskey-punch  : 
he  boasted  of  his  late  success  in  trade,  showed  with 
exultation  his  almost  empty  pack,  and  taking  out  the 
only  tw^o  handkerchiefs  left  in  it,  threw  one  to  Cathleen, 
and  the  other  to  the  old  woman  of  the  house ;  then 
slapping  his  pocket  in  which  a  quantity  of  loose  money 
was  heard  to  jingle,  he  swore  he  would  treat  Cathleen 
to  a  good  breakfast  next  morning  ;  and  threw  a  shilling 
on  the  table,  desiring  the  old  woman  would  provide 
"  stirabout  for  a  dozen,"  and  have  it  ready  by  the  first 
light. 

Cathleen  listened  to  this  rhodomontadc  in  some  alarm 
she  fancied  to  detect  certain  suspicious  glances  between 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  85 

the  father  and  son,  and  began  to  feel  an  indescribable 
dread  of  her  company.  She  arose  from  the  table,  urg- 
ing the  Pedier  good-humoredly  to  retire  to  rest,  as  they 
intended  to  be  up  and  away  so  early  next  morning  : 
then  concealing  her  apprehensions  under  an  affectation 
of  extreme  fatigue  and  drowsiness,  she  desired  to  be 
shown  where  she  was  to  sleep.  The  eld  woman  lighted 
a  lanthorn,  and  led  the  way  up  some  broken  steps  into 
a  sort  of  loft,  where  she  showed  her  two  beds  standing 
close  together  ;  one  of  these  she  intimated  was  for  the 
Pedier,  and  the  other  for  herself  Now  Cathleen  had 
been  born  and  bred  in  an  Irish  cabin,  where  the  inmates 
are  usually  lodged  after  a  very  promiscuous  fashion  ; 
our  readers,  therefore,  will  net  wonder  at  the  arrange- 
ment. Cathleen,  however,  required  that,  if  possible, 
some  kind  of  screen  should  be  placed  between  the  beds. 
The  old  hag  at  first  replied  to  this  request  with  the  most 
disgusting  impudence  ;  but  Cathleen  insisting,  the  beds 
were  moved  asunder,  leaving  a  space  of  about  two  feet 
between  them  ;  and  after  a  long  search  a  piece  of  old 
frieze  v/as  dragged  out  from  among  some  rubbish,  and 
hung  up  to  the  low  rafters,  so  as  to  form  a  curtain  or 
partition  half  way  across  the  room.  Having  completed 
this  arrangement,  and  wished  her  "  a  sweet  sleep  and  a 
sound,  and  lucky  dreams,"  the  old  woman  put  the  lant- 
horn on  the  floor,  for  there  was  neither  chair  nor  table, 
and  left  her  guest  to  repose. 

Cathleen  said  her  prayers,  only  partly  undressed  her- 
self, and  lifting  up  the  worn  out  coverlet,  lay  down  upon 
the  bed.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards  the  Pedier 
staggered  into  the  room,  and  as  he  passed  the  foot  of 

F  •* 


86  IIALLORAN    THE    PEDLER. 

her  bed,  bid  God  bless  her,  in  a  low  voice.  He  then 
threw  himself  down  on  his  bed,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  as 
she  judged  by  his  hard  and  equal  breathing,  the  old  man 
was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

All  was  now  still  in  the  house,  but  Cathleen,  could 
not  sleep.  She  was  feverish  and  restless :  her  limbs 
ached,  her  head  throbbed  and  burned,  undefinable  fears 
beset  her  fancy  ;  and  whenever  she  tried  to  compose  her- 
self to  slumber  the  faces  of  the  two  men  she  had  left  be- 
low flitted  and  glared  before  her  eyes.  A  sense  of  heat 
and  suffocation,  accompanied  by  a  parching  thirst,  came 
over  her,  caused,  perhaps,  by  the  unusual  closeness  of 
the  room.  This  feeling  of  oppression  increased  till  the 
very  walls  and  rafters  seemed  to  approach  nearer  and 
close  upon  her  all  around.  Unable  any  longer  to  en- 
dure this  intolerable  smothering  sensation,  she  was  just 
about  to  rise  and  open  the  door  or  window,  when  she 
heard  the  whispering  of  voices.  She  lay  still  and  listen- 
ed. The  latch  was  raised  cautiously,  —  the  door  open- 
ed, and  the  two  Hogans  entered  :  they  trod  so  softly 
that,  though  she  saw  them  move  before  her,  she  heard 
no  foot-fall.  They  approached  the  bed  of  Halloran, 
and  presently  she  heard  a  dull  heavy  blow,  and  then 
sounds  —  appalling  sickening  sounds  —  as  of  subdued 
struggles  and  smothered  agony,  which  convinced  her 
that  they  were  murdering  the  unfortunate  Pedler. 

Cathleen  listened,  almost  congealed  v.ith  horror,  but 
she  did  not  swoon  :  her  turn,  she  thought,  must  come 
next,  though  in  the  same  instant  she  felt  instinctively 
that  her  only  chance  of  preservation  was  to  counterfieit 
profound    pleep.      The    murderf^r?;,  havnitr    done    their 


HALLORAN    THE    TEDLER.  87 

work  on  the  poor  Pedler,  approached  her  bed,  and  threw 
the  gleam  of  their  lanthorn  full  on  her  face  ;  she  lay  quite 
still,  breathing  calmly  and  regularly.  They  brought  the 
light  to  her  eye-lids,  but  they  did  not  wink  or  move  ;  — 
there  was  a  pause,  a  terrible  pause,  and  then  a  whisper- 
ing ; —  and  presently  Cathleen  thought  she  could  dis- 
tinguish a  third  voice,  as  of  expostulation,  but  all  in  so 
very  low  a  tone  that  though  the  voices  were  close  to  her 
she  could  not  hear  a  word  that  was  uttered.  After  some 
moments,  which  appeared  an  age  of  agonizing  suspense, 
the  wretches  withdrew,  and  Cathleen  was  left  alone,  and 
in  darkness.  Then,  indeed,  she  felt  as  one  ready  to 
die  :  to  use  her  own  affecting  language,  "  the  heart 
within  me,"  said  she,  "  melted  away  like  water,  but  I 
was  resolute  not  to  swoon,  and  I  did  not.  I  knew  that 
if  I  would  preserve  my  life,  I  must  keep  the  sense  in 
me,  and  I  did.^^ 

Now  and  then  she  fancied  she  heard  the  murdered 
man  move,  and  creep  about  in  his  bed,  and  this  horri- 
ble conceit  almost  maddened  her  with  terror  :  but  she 
set  herself  to  listen  fixedly,  and  convinced  her  reason 
that  all  was  still  —  that  all  was  over. 

She  then  turned  her  thoughts  to  the  possibility  of 
escape.  The  window  first  suggested  itself:  the  faint 
moon-light  was  just  struggling  through  its  dirty  and  cob- 
webbed  panes  ;  it  was  very  small,  and  Cathleen  reflect- 
ed, that  besides  the  difficulty,  and,  perhaps,  impossibili- 
ty of  getting  througli,  it  must  be  some  height  from  the 
ground  :  neither  could  she  tell  on  which  side  of  the 
house  it  was  situated,  nor  in  what  direction  to  turn, 
suppnsmg  she  reached  the  ground  ;  and,  above  all,  she 


88  HALLORAN    THE    TEDLER. 

was  aware  that  the  slightest  noise,  must  cause  her  in- 
stant destruction.  She  thus  resolved  upon  remaining 
quiet. 

It  was  most  fortunate  that  Cathleen  came  to  this  de- 
termination, for  without  the  slightest  previous  sound  the 
door  again  opened,  and  in  the  faint  light,  to  which  her 
eyes  were  now  accustomed,  she  saw  the  head  of  the  old 
woman  bent  forward  in  a  listening  attitude  :  in  a  few 
minutes  the  door  closed,  and  then  followed  a  whisper- 
ing outside.  She  could  not  at  first  distinguish  a  word 
until  the  woman's  sharper  tones  broke  out,  though  in 
suppressed  vehemence,  with  "  If  ye  touch  her  life,  Bar- 
ny,  a  mother's  curse  go  with  ye  !  enough's  done." 

"  She'll  live,  then,  to  hang  us  all,"  said  the  miscreant 
son. 

"  Sooner  than  that,  I'd  draw  this  knife  across  her 
throat  with  my  own  hands  ;  and  I'd  do  it  again  and 
again,  sooner  than  they  should  touch  your  life,  Barny, 
jewel  :  but  no  fear,  the  creature's  asleep  or  dead  alrea- 
dy, with  the  fright  of  it." 

The  son  then  said  something  which  Cathleen  could 
not  hear  ;  the  old  v/oman  replied. 

*'Hisht !  I  tell  ye,  no,  —  no;  the  ship's  now  in  the 
Cove  of  Cork  that's  to  carry  her  over  the  salt  seas  far 
enough  out  of  the  way  :  and  have  n't  we  all  she  has  in 
the  world  1  and  more,  didn't  she  take  the  bit  out  of  her 
own  mouth  to  put  into  mine  ?  " 

The  son  again  spoke  inaudibly  ;  and  then  the  voices 
ceased,  leaving  Cathleen  uncertain  as  to  her  fate. 

Shortly  after  the  door  opened,  and  the  father  and  son 
again  entered,  and  carried  out  the  body  of  the  wretch- 


HALLORAN    THE    PEPLER.  89 

ed  Pedler.  They  seemed  to  have  the  art  of  treading 
without  noise,  for  though  Cathleen  saw  them  move,  she 
could  not  hear  a  sound  of  a  footstep.  The  old  woman 
was  all  this  time  standing  by  her  bed,  and  every  now 
and  then  casting  the  light  full  upon  her  eyes ;  but  as 
she  remained  quite  still,  and  apparently  in  a  deep  calm 
sleep,  they  left  her  undisturbed,  and  she  neither  saw  nor 
heard  any  more  of  them  that  night. 

It  ended  at  length  —  that  long,  long  night  of  horror. 
Cathleen  lay  quiet  till  she  thought  the  morning  suf- 
ficiently advanced.  She  then  rose,  and  went  down  into 
the  kitchen  :  the  old  woman  was  lifting  a  pot  off  the 
fire,  and  nearly  let  it  fall  as  Cathleen  suddenly  address- 
ed her,  and  with  an  appearance  of  surprise  and  concern, 
asked  for  her  friend  the  Pedler,  saying  she  had  just  look- 
ed into  his  bed,  supposing  he  was  still  asleep,  and  to  her 
great  amazement  had  found  it  empty.  The  old  woman 
replied,  that  he  had  set  out  at  early  day -light  for  Mallow, 
having  only  just  remembered  that  his  business  called 
him  that  way  before  he  went  to  Cork.  Cathleen  affect- 
ed great  wonder  and  perplexity,  and  reminded  the  wo- 
man that  he  had  promised  to  pay  for  her  breakfast. 

"  An'  so  he  did,  sure  enough,"  she  replied,  "  and  paid 
for  it  too ;  and  by  the  same  token  did  'nt  I  go  down  to 
Balgowna  myself  for  milk  and  the  male  before  the  sun 
was  over  the  tree  tops  ;  and  here  it  is  for  ye,  ma  col- 
leen : "  so  saying,  she  placed  a  bowl  of  stirabout  and 
some  milk  before  Cathleen,  and  then  sat  down  on  the 
stool  opposite  to  her,  watching  her  intently. 

Poor  Cathleen  !  she  had  but  little  inclination  to  eat, 
and  felt  as  if  every  bit  would  choke  her  :  yet  she  con- 


90  HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER. 

tinned  to  force  down  her  breakfast,  and  apparently  with 
the  utmost  ease  and  appetite,  even  to  the  last  morsel  set 
before  her.  While  eating,  she  inquired  about  the  hus- 
band and  son,  and  the  old  woman  replied,  that  they  had 
started  at  the  first  burst  of  light  to  cut  turf  in  a  bog, 
about  five  miles  distant. 

When  Cathleen  had  finished  her  breakfast,  she  re- 
turned the  old  woman  many  thanks  for  he  rkind  treat- 
ment, and  then  desired  to  know  the  nearest  way  to  Cork. 
The  woman  Hogan  informed  her  that  the  distance  was 
about  seven  miles,  and  though  the  usual  road  was  by 
the  high  way  from  which  they  had  turned  the  proceed- 
inff  evening,  there  was  a  nmch  shorter  way  across  some 
fields  which  she  pointed  out.  Cathleen  listened  atten- 
tively to  her  directions,  and  then  bidding  farewell  with 
many  demonstrations  of  gratitude,  she  proceeded  on  her 
fearful  journey.  The  cool  morning  air,  the  cheerful 
song  of  the  early  birds,  the  dewy  freshness  of  the  turf, 
v/ere  all  unnoticed  and  unfelt  :  the  sense  of  danger  was 
paramount,  while  her  faculties  were  all  alive  and  awake 
to  meet  it,  for  a  feverish  and  unnatural  strength  seemed 
to  animate  her  limbs.  She  stepped  on,  shortly  debating 
with  herself  whether  to  follow  the  directions  given  by 
the  old  woman.  The  high  road  appeared  the  safest ;  on 
the  other  hand,  she  was  aware  that  the  slightest  betrayal 
of  mistrust  would  perhaps  be  followed  by  her  destruc- 
tion ;  and  thus  rendered  brave  even  by  the  excess  of 
her  fears,  she  determined  to  take  the  cross  path.  Just 
as  she  had  come  to  this  resolution,  she  reached  the  gate 
which  she  had  been  directed  to  pass  through  ;  and  with- 
out the  slightest  apparent  hesitation,  she  turned  in,  and 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  91 

pursued  the  lonely  way  through  the  fields.  Often  did 
she  fancy  she  heard  footsteps  stealthily  following  her, 
and  never  approached  a  hedge  without  expecting  to  see 
the  murderers  start  up  from  behind  it ;  yet  she  never 
once  turned  her  head,  nor  quickened  nor  slackened  her 
pace  ; 

Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

She  had  proceeded  in  this  manner  about  three  quar- 
ters of  a  mile,  and  approached  a  thick  and  dark  grove 
of  undervv'ood,  when  she  beheld  seated  upon  the  opposite 
stile  an  old  woman  in  a  red  cloak.  The  sight  of  a  hu- 
man being  made  her  heart  throb  more  quickly  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  but  on  approaching  nearer,  with  all  her  faculties 
sharpened  by  the  sense  of  danger,  she  perceived  that  it 
was  no  old  woman,  but  the  younger  Hogan,  the  mur- 
derer of  Halloran,  who  was  thus  disguised.  His  face 
was  partly  concealed  by  a  blue  handkerchief  tied  round 
his  head  and  under  his  chin,  but  she  knew  him  by  the 
peculiar  and  hideous  expression  of  his  eyes  :  yet  with 
amazing  and  almost  incredible  self-possession,  she  con- 
tinued to  advance  without  manifesting  the  least  alarm, 
or  sign  of  recognition  ;  and  walking  uj)  to  the  pretend- 
ed old  woman,  said  in  a  clear  voice,  "The  blessing  of 
the  morning  on  ye,  good  mother  !  a  fine  day  for  travel- 
lers like  you  and  me  !  " 

"  A  fine  day,"  he  replied,  cougliing  and  mumbling  in 
a  feigned  voice,  "  but  ye  see,  hugh,  ugh  !  ye  see  I've 


h2  HALLO RAN    THE    TEDLER. 

walked  tliis  moniin '  from  the  Cove  of  Cork,  jewel,  and 
troth  I  'm  almost  spent,  and  I  've  a  bad  cowld,  and  a 
cough  on  me,  as  3  e  may  hear,"  and  he  coughed  vehe- 
mently. Cathleen  made  a  motion  to  pass  the  stile,  but 
the  disguised  old  woman  stretching  out  a  great  bony 
hand,  seized  her  gown.  Still  Cathleen  did  not  quail. 
"  Musha,  then,  have  ye  nothing  to  give  a  poor  ould  wo- 
man," said  the  monster,  in  a  whining,  snuffling  tone. 
"Nothing  have  I  in  this  wide  world,"  said  Cathleen, 
quietly  disengaging  her  gown,  but  without  moving. 
"  Sure  its  only  yesterday  I  was  robbed  of  all  I  had  but 
the  little  clothes  on  my  back,  and  if  I  had  n't  met  with 
charity  from  others  I'd  have  starved  by  the  way  side  by 
this  time." 

"  Och  !  and  is  there  no  place  hereby  where  they  would 
give  a  potatoe  and  a  cup  of  cowld  water  to  a  poor  old 
woman  ready  to  drop  on  her  road  1 " 

Cathleen  instantly  pointed  forward  to  the  house  she 
had  just  left,  and  recommended  her  to  apply  there. 
"  Sure  they're  good,  honest  people,  though  poor  enough, 
God  help  them,"  she  continued,  "  and  I  wish  ye  mother, 
no  worse  luck  than  myself  had,  and  that's  a  good  friend 
to  treat  ye  to  a  supper,  aye,  and  a  breakfast  too ;  there 
it  is,  ye  may  just  see  the  light  smoke  rising  like  a  thread 
over  the  hill,  just  foment  ye ;   and  so  God  speed  ye  !  " 

Cathleen  turned  to  descend  the  stile  as  she  spoke  ex- 
pecting to  be  again  seized  with  a  strong  and  murderous 
grasp  ;  bat  her  enemy,  secure  in  his  disguise,  and  nev- 
er doubting  her  perfect  unconsciousness,  suffered  her  to 
pass  unmolested. 

Another  half  mile  brought  her  to  the  top  of  a  rising 


KALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  93 

ground,  within  sight  of  the  high  road;  she  could  see 
crowds  of  people  on  horseback  and  on  foot,  with  cars 
and  carriages  passing  along  in  one  direction  ;  for  it  was, 
though  Cathleen  did  not  then  know  it,  the  first  day  of  the 
Cork  Assizes.  As  she  gazed,  she  wished  for  the  wings 
of  a  bird  that  she  might  in  a  moment  flee  over  the 
space  which  intervened  between  her  and  safety ;  for 
though  she  could  clearly  see  the  high  road  from  the  hill 
on  which  she  stood,  a  valley  of  broken  ground  at  its 
foot,  and  two  wide  fields  still  separated  her  from  it ;  but 
with  the  same  unfailing  spirit,  and  the  same  steady  pace, 
she  proceeded  onwards  :  and  now  she  had  reached  the 
middle  of  the  last  field,  and  a  thrill  of  new  born  hope 
was  beginning  to  flatter  at  her  heart,  when  suddenly 
two  men  burst  through  the  fence  at  the  farther  side  of 
the  field,  and  advanced  towards  her.  One  of  these  she 
thought  at  the  first  glance  resembled  her  husband,  but 
that  it  was  her  husband  himself  was  an  idea  which  nev- 
er entered  her  mind.  Her  imagination  wa?^  possessed 
with  the  one  supreme  idea  of  danger  and  death  by  mur- 
derous hands;  she  doubted  not  that  these  were  the  two 
Hogans  in  some  new  disguise,  and  silently  recommend- 
inrr  herself  to  God,  she  steeled  her  heart  to  meet  this 
fresh  trial  of  her  fortitude ;  aware  that  however  it 
might  end,  it  Jimst  be  the  last.  At  this  moment  one  of 
the  men  throwing  up  his  arms,  ran  forward,  shouting 
her  name,  in  a  voice — a  dear  and  well  known  voice, 
in  Vfhich  she  could  not  be  deceived  :  —  it  was  her  hus- 
band ! 

The  poor   woman,  who  had   hitherto  supported  her 
spirits  and  her  self-possession,  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the 

G 


94  HALLORAIV    THE    PEDLER. 

gi\ound,  weak,  motionless,  and  gasping  for  breath.  A 
cold  dew  burst  from  every  pore;  her  ears  tingled,  her 
heart  fluttered  as  though  it  would  burst  from  her  bosom. 
When  she  attempted  to  call  out,  and  raise  her  hand  in 
token  of  recognition,  the  sounds  died  away,  rattling  in 
her  throat;  her  arm  dropped  powerless  at  her  side;  and 
when  her  husband  came  up,  and  slie  made  a  last  effort 
to  spring  towards  him,  she  sank  down  at  his  feet  in 
strong  convulsions. 

Ileilly,  much  shocked  at  what  he  supposed  the  effect 
of  sudden  surprise,  knelt  down  and  chafed  his  wife's 
temples;  his  comrade  ran  to  a  neighboring  spring  for 
water,  which  they  sprinkled  plentifully  over  her:  v*'hen, 
however,  she  returned  to  life,  her  intellects  appeared  to 
have  fled  for  ever,  and  she  uttered  such  wild  shrieks 
and  exclamationy,  and  talked  so  incoherently,  that  the 
men  became  exceedingly  terrified,  and  poor  Reiily  him- 
self, almost  as  distracted  as  his  wife.  After  vainly  at- 
tem.ping  to  soothe  and  recover  her,  they  at  length  for- 
cibly carried  her  down  to  the  inn  at  Balgowna,  a  ham- 
let about  a  mile  farther  on,  v.-here  she  remained  for.  sev- 
eral hours  in  a  state  of  delirium,  one  fit  succeeding 
another  with  little  intermission. 

Towards  evening  she  became  more  composed,  and 
was  able  to  give  some  account  of  the  horrible  events  of 
the  preceding  night.  It  happened,  opportunely,  that  a 
gentleman  of  fortune  in  the  neighborhood,  and  a  mag- 
istrate, was  riding  by  late  that  evening  on  his  return 
from  the  Assizes  at  Cork,  and  stoi)ped  at  the  inn  to 
refresh  his  liorse.  Hearing  that  something  unusual  and 
frigiuful   had  occurred,  he  alighted,  and  examined  the 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  95 

woman  himself,  in  the  presence  of  one  or  two  persons. 
Her  tale  appeared  to  him  so  strange  and  wild  from  the 
manner  in  which  she  told  it,  and  her  account  of  her 
own  courage  and  sufferings  so  exceedingly  incredible, 
that  he  was  at  first  inclined  to  disbelieve  the  whole,  and 
suspected  the  poor  woman  either  of  imposture  or  insan- 
ity. He  did  not,  however,  think  proper  totally  to  neglect 
her  testimony,  but  immediately  sent  ofi'  information  of 
the  murder  to  Cork.  Constables  with  a  warrant  were 
despatched  the  same  night  to  the  house  of  the  Hogans, 
which  they  found  empty,  and  the  inmates  already  fled  : 
but  after  a  long  search,  the  body  of  the  wretched  Hal- 
loran,  and  part  of  his  property,  were  found  concealed 
in  a  stack  of  old  chimneys  among  the  ruins;  and  this 
proof  of  guilt  was  decisive.  The  country  was  instantly 
up ;  the  most  active  search  after  the  murderers  was 
made  by  the  police,  assisted  by  all  the  neighboring  pea- 
santry ;  and  before  twelve  o'clock  the  following  night, 
the  three  Hogans,  father,  mother,  and  son,  had  been 
apprehended  in  different  places  of  concealment,  and 
placed  in  safe  custody.  Meantime  the  Coroner's  in- 
quest having  sat  on  the  body,  brought  in  a  verdict  of 
wilful  murder. 

As  the  Judges  were  then  at  Cork,  the  trial  came  on 
immediately;  and  from  its  extraordinary  circumstances, 
excited  the  most  intense  and  general  interest.  Among 
the  property  of  poor  Halloran  discovered  in  the  house, 
were  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  cap  which  Cathleen  at  once 
identified  as  belonging  to  herself,  and  Reilly's  silver 
watch  was  found  on  the  younger  Plogan,  When  ques- 
tioned how  they  came  into  his  possession,  he  sullenly 


9b  HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER. 

refused  to  jmswer;  His  mother  eagerly,  and  as  if  to 
shield  her  son,  confessed  that  she  v/as  the  person  who 
had  robbed  Cathleen  in  the  former  part  of  the  day,  that 
she  had  gone  out  on  the  Carrick  road  to  beg,  having 
been  left  by  her  husband  and  son  for  two  days  without 
the  means  of  support;  and  finding  Cathleen  asleep, 
she  had  taken  away  the  bundle,  supposing  it  to  contain 
food ;  and  did  not  recognise  her  as  the  same  person  she 
had  robbed,  till  Cathleen  offered  her  part  of  her  sup- 
per. 

The  surgeon,  who  had  been  called  to  examine  the 
body  of  Halloran,  deposed  to  the  cause  of  his  death  ;  — 
that  the  old  man  had  been  first  stunned  by  a  heavy  blow 
on  the  temple,  and  then  strangled.  Other  witnesses 
deposed  to  the  finding  of  the  body  :  the  previous  char- 
acter of  the  Hogans,  and  the  circumstances  attending 
their  apprehension  ;  but  the  principal  witness  was  Cath- 
leen. She  appeared,  leaning  on  her  husband,  her  face 
was  ashy  pale,  and  her  limbs  too  weak  for  support ;  yet 
she,  however,  was  perfectly  collected,  and  gave  her  tes- 
timony with  that  precision,  simplicity,  and  modesty, 
peculiar  to  her  character.  When  she  had  occasion  to 
allude  to  her  own  feelings,  it  was  with  such  natural  and 
heart-felt  eloquence  that  the  whole  court  was  affected; 
and  when  she  described  her  rencontre  at  the  stile  there 
was  a  general  pressure  and  a  breathless  suspense ;  and 
then  a  loud  murmur  of  astonishment  and  admiration 
fully  participated  by  even  the  bench  of  magistrates. 
The  evidence  was  clear  and  conclusive :  and  the  jury, 
without  retiring,  gave  their  verdict,  guilty  —  Death. 
When  the   miserable    wretches   were   asked,  in  the 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  07 

usual  forms,  if  they  had  any  thing  to  say  why  the  awful 
sentence  should  not  be  passed  upon  them,  the  old  mfiu 
replied  by  a  look  of  idiotic  vacancy,  and  was  mute  — 
the  younger  Hogan  answered  sullenly,  "nothing:"  the 
old  woman,  staring  wildly  on  her  son,  tried  to  speak; 
her  lips  moved,  but  without  a  sound  —  and  she  fell  for- 
ward on  the  bar  in  strong  fits. 

At  this  moment  Cathleen  rushed  from  the  arms  of 
her  husband,  and  throwing  herself  on  her  knees,  with 
clasped  hands,  and  cheeks  streaming  with  tears,  begged 
for  mercy  for  the  old  woman.  "  Mercy,  my  lord  judge  !  " 
she  exclaimed.  *'  Gentlemen,  your  honors,  have  mer- 
cy on  her.  She  had  mercy  on  me  !  She  only  did  their 
bidding.  As  fjr  the  bundle  and  all  in  it,  I  give  it  to 
her  with  all  my  soul,  so  it's  no  robbery.  The  grip  of 
hunger  's  hard  to  bear  ;  and  if  she  hadn't  taken  it  then, 
where  would  I  have  been  now?  Sure  they  would  have 
killed  me  for  the  sake  of  the  watch,  and  I  would  have 
been  a  corpse  before  your  honors  this  moment.  O 
mercy !  mercy  for  her  !  or  never  will  I  sleep  asy  on  this 
side  of  the  grave  !" 

The  judge,  though  much  affected,  was  obliged  to 
have  her  forcibly  carried  from  the  court,  and  justice 
took  its  awful  course.  Sentence  of  death  was  pro- 
nounced on  all  the  prisoners :  but  the  woman  was  re- 
prieved, and  afterwards  transported.  The  two  men 
were  executed  within  forty-eight  hours  after  their  con- 
viction, on  the  Gallows  Green.  They  made  no  public 
confession  of  their  guilt,  and  met  their  fate  with  sullen 
indifference.  The  awful  ceremony  was  for  a  moment 
interrupted  by  an  incident  which  afterwards  furnished 


9b  halloran  the  tedler. 

ample  matter  for  wonder  and  speculation  among  the 
superstitious  populace.  It  was  well  known  that  the 
younger  Hogan  had  been  long  employed  on  the  estate 
of  a  nobleman  in  the  neighborhood  :  but  havincr  been 
concerned  in  the  abduction  of  a  young  female,  under 
circumstances  of  peculiar  atrocity,  which  for  the  want 
of  legal  evidence  could  not  be  brought  home  to  him,  he 
was  dismissed ;  and,  finding  himself  an  object  of  gen- 
eral execration,  he  had  since  been  skulking  about  the 
country,  associating  Vvith  housebreakers  and  other  law- 
less and  abandoned  characters.  At  the  moment  the 
hangman  was  adjusting  the  rope  round  his  neck,  a  shrill 
voice  screamed  from  the  midst  of  the  crov/d,  "  Barny 
Hogan  !  do  ye  mind  Grace  Power,  and  the  last  words 
ever  she  spoke  to  ye  ?  "  There  was  a  general  movement 
and  confusion ;  no  one  could  or  would  tell  wiience  the 
voice  proceeded.  The  wretched  man  was  seen  to 
chanoje  countenance  for  the  first  time,  and  raisinfr  him- 
self  on  tiptoe,  gazed  wildly  round  upon  the  multitude, 
but  he  said  nothing;  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  no 
more. 

The  reader  may  wish  to  know  what  has  become  of 
Cathleen,  our  heroine,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word. 
Iler  story,  her  sufterings,  her  extraordinary  fortitude, 
and  pure  simplicity  of  character  made  her  an  object  of 
general  curiosity  and  interest :  a  subscription  was  raised 
for  her,  which  soon  amounted  to  a  liberal  sum  :  they 
were  enabled  to  procure  Reilly's  discharge  from  the 
army,  and  with  a  part  of  the  money,  Cathie:  n,  who, 
among  her  other  perfections,  was  exceedingly  pious  after 
the  fashion  of  her  creed  and  country,  founded  yearly 


HALLORAN    THE    PEDLER.  99 

masses  for  the  soul  of  the  poor  Pedler ;  and  vowed  her- 
self to  make  a  pilgrimage  of  thanksgiving  to  St.  Gob- 
nate's  well.  Mr.  L.  the  magistrate  who  had  first  exam- 
ined her  in  the  little  inn  at  Balgowna,  made  her  a  mu- 
niiicent  present ;  and  anxious,  perhaps,  to  offer  yet  fur- 
ther amends  for  his  former  doubts  of  her  veracity,  he  in- 
vited Reilly,  on  very  advantageous  terms,  to  settle  on 
his  estate,  w^here  he  rented  a  neat  cabin,  and  a  handsome 
plot  of  potatoe  ground.  There  Reilly  and  his  Cathleen 
were  living  ten  years  ago,  with  an  increasing  family,  and 
in  the  enjoyment  of  much  humble  happiness ;  and  there, 
for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary,  they  may  be  living  at 
this  day. 


100 


STANZAS  ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


Though  the  fair  field  of  life  be  o'ershadovv'd  with  sorrows, 
And  the  groans  of  calamity  burst  on  our  ears ; 
Still  the  heart  has  its  joys,  whilst  from  friendship  it  borrows. 
A  balm  for  its  pangs,  a  relief  for  its  tears. 


In  the  balance  of  destiny,  anguish  and  pleasure 
Are  equally  poised;  but  where  friendship  prevails 
This  equality  ceases,  and  joy,  without  measure. 
Gives  new  sway  to  the  beam,  and  thus  varies  the  scales. 


I  have  known  what  there  is  in  that  ardent  sensation 
Which  glows  in  the  heart,  when  esteem  is  its  source ; 
I  have  known  that  regard,  friendship's  sweetest  creation. 
Which  lightens  time's  load,  and  gives  speed  to  his  course. 


I  have  known  that  there  are  w^ho  a  feeling  can  cherish, 
For  those  who  have  drained  the  full  chalice  of  wo ; 
I  have  known  that  there  are  who  for  others  can  nourish 
That  sympathy  few  ever  deign  to  bestov.^ 


And  though  friendship  is  said  to  have  only  her  dwelling 
With  the  saints  in  their  bliss,  mid  the  light  of  the  skies, 
She  has  cheered  this  dull  earth  —  oh,  what  pride  in  the  telling 
She  has  challcng'd  this  heart,  she  has  gladden'd  these  eyes. 


ON    FRIENDSHIP.  lOi 

I  have  known  her,  as  if  some  bright  angel  had  sent  her, 
Like  a  pure  bliss  from  lieaA'^en,  clinging  fast  to  the  soul ; 
And  only  that  grave,  where  each  mortal  must  enter, 
Shall  hide  her  pure  light,  or  her  fervors  control. 

Without  her  the  virtues,  all  pale  and  affrighted, 
Would  fly  to  a  kindlier  sojourn  for  rest; 
Without  her  religion,  abandon'd,  benighted, 
Could  impart  not  her  cheer  to  the  desolate  breast. 

All  those  social  attachments  which  hither  unite  us. 
But  for  her  would  be  void,  and  this  world  would  be  then 
A  wild  scene  of  things  to  confound  and  affright  us. 
And  wolves  v/ould  be  less  —  far  less  savage  than  men. 

But  friendship  enlivens  the  prospect  before  us, 

For  at  her  magic  touch  its  asperities  cease ; 

And  the  tempests  of  life  as  their  thunders  burst  o'er  us, 

Are  hushed  by  her  voice,  and  subside  into  peace. 

How  oft  does  she  kindle  the  torch  of  devotion, 
And  lift  our  affections  from  earth  to  the  skies ; 
When  memory  awakens  the  tender  emotion 
For  friends  who  are  gone  to  the  scene  of  their  joys. 

Nay,  tell  me  not,  you  whom  no  fervors  enkindle, 
That  our  days  bring  no  cheer  as  before  us  they  fly  ; 
Whilst  life's  varied  web  is  unwound  from  its  spindle, 
How  the  labor  is  lightened  when  friendship  is  by. 

Shall  they  round  whose  heart  all  that's  selfish  and  sordid  — 
Like  ivy  long  clasped  round  the  storm-beaten  rock  — 
Clings,  its  .sympathies  stifling,  —  shall  they  be  regarded 
Who  delight  at  the  miseries  of  others  to  mock  .'' 


J02  OV    FRIENDSHIP. 

With  such  she  can  never  have  fellowsliip —  never 
Shall  her  pure  appeals  with  their  sympathies  blend- 
From  those  she  is  sundered,  and  sundered  for  ever, 
Who  to  self's  only  idol  devotedly  bend. 


i 


Tis  not  for  the  cold,  for  the  selfish,  unfeeling, 

That  friendship  prepares  the  pure  joys  that  she  ovv'ns ; 

To  the  sensitive  only  her  blessings  revealing —  A 

She  has  sweets  for  her  bees,  but  no  honey  for  drones. 


103 


THE  SUNSHINE. 


I  LOVE  the  sunshine  every  where, 
In  wood,  and  field  and  glen  ; 

I  love  it  in  the  busy  haunts 
Of  town-imprisoned  men. 


I  love  it  when  it  streameth  in 

The  humble  cottage  door, 
And  casts  the  checkered  casement  sliade 

Upon  the  red-brick  floor. 


I  love  it  where  the  children  lie 
Deep  in  the  clovery  grass, 

To  v.'atch  among  the  tvv^ining  roots 
The  gold-green  beetles  pass. 


I  love  it  on  the  breezy  sea, 

To  glance  on  sail  and  oar. 
While  the  great  waves,  like  molten  glass, 

Come  leaping  to  the  shore. 


I  love  It  on  the  mountain-top<?. 
Where  lies  the  thawless  snow. 

And  half  a  kingdom,  bathed  in  light, 
Lies  stretching  out  below. 


104 


THE    SUNSHINE. 


And  when  it  shines  in  forest  glades, 

Hidden,  and  green,  and  cool, 
Through  mossy  boughs  and  veined  leaves, 

How  is  it  beautiful  ! 


How  beautiful  on  little  streams. 
When  sun  and  shade  at  play. 

Make  silvery  meshes,  while  the  brook 
Goes  singing  on  its  way. 


How  beautiful,  where  dragon-flies 

Are  wondrous  to  behold. 
With  rainbow  wings  of  gauzy  pearl, 
And  bodies  blue  and  gold. 

Plow  beautiful,  on  harvest  slopes, 

To  see  the  sunshine  lie  ; 
Or  on  the  paler  reaped  fields, 

Where  yellow  shocks  stand  high. 

O  yes  !  I  love  the  sunshine  ! 

Like  kindness,  or  like  mirth 
Upon  a  human  countenance. 

Is  sunshine  on  the  earth. 


Upon  the  earth,  upon  the  sea, 
And  through  the  crystal  air, 

On  piled-up  cloud,  the  gracious  sun 
Is  glorious  every  where  ! 


wl 


^ 


2 


105 


THE  POLITICIAN  OF  PODUNK. 


Solomon  Waxtend  was  a  shoemaker  of  Podunk, 
a  small  village  of  New  York,  some  forty  years  ago.  He 
was  an  Englishman  by  birth,  and  had  come  over  the 
water  to  mend  the  institutions,  as  well  as  the  soles,  of 
the  country.  He  v.^as  a  perfectly  honest  man,  and  of 
natural  good  sense ;  but,  having  taken  pretty  large  doses 
of  new  light  from  the  v/orks  of  Tom  Paine  and  the  French 
Revolutionists,  he  became  like  an  inflated  balloon,  light- 
headed, and  soared  aloft  into  the  unknown  regions  of  air. 
Like  many  of  his  countrymen  brought  up  under  monar- 
chical institutions,  he  was  slow  in  understanding  the 
mysteries  of  our  political  system  ;  and,  wanting  the  bal- 
last of  Yankee  common  sense,  he  nevertheless  thought 
himself  specially  qualified  to  instruct  the  people  of  Po- 
dunk in  every  thing  relating  to  civil  liberty. 

Accordingly  he  held  forth,  at  first,  over  his  lapstone, 
then  at  the  bar-room,  and  finally  at  a  caucus.  He  had 
some  gifts,  and  more  of  the  grace  of  assurance.  He 
set  up  for  a  great  man,  became  a  candidate  for  repre- 
sentative, and  was  triumphantly  elected  a  member  of  the 
General  Assembly  of  New  York.  With  all  the  spirit 
of  a  true  reformer,  he  set  forth  for  Albany,  to  discharge 
the  high  functions  of  his  official  state.  He  went.  He 
rose  to  make  a  speech.  His  voice  failed,  his  knees  tot- 
tered, he  became  silent ;  he  sat  down.     The  whole  af- 


106  THE    POLITICIAN    OF    TODUNK. 

fair  was  duly  reported  in  the  papers.  It  was  read  at  the 
alehouse  in  Podunk  ! 

Solomon  Waxtend  came  back  an  altered  man.  He 
went  away  round,  ruddy,  and  self-sufficient ;  he  return- 
ed lean,  sullen,  and  subdued.  He  shut  himself  up  for 
a  month,  and  nothing  was  heard  in  his  house  by  the 
neighbors,  save  the  vigorous  hammer  upon  the  lapstone. 
At  length,  one  evening,  he  appeared  at  the  village  inn. 
It  was  a  sort  of  holiday  eve,  and  many  of  his  partisans 
were  there.  They  looked  at  Solomon,  as  if  they  saw  a 
ghost ;  but  he  had  that  calmness  of  countenance  which 
betokens  a  n:iind  made  up.  His  late  friends  crowded 
round  him  ;  but  Solomon,  vv^aving  his  hand,  bade  them 
sit  down.     Having  done  this,  he  spoke  as  follows. 

"I  trust  I  am  duly  sensible,  my  friends,  of  the  honor 
you  intended  me,  in  sending  me  to  the  Assembly.  If  I 
have  disgraced  you,  it  has,  at  least,  been  a  lesson  to  rae. 
I  find,  that  in  order  to  understand  your  institutions,  and 
to  cope  with  your  Yankee  people,  it  is  necessary,  like 
them,  to  live  long  in  the  country,  and  to  study  its  his- 
tory, and  become  familiar  with  its  political  system.  I 
find  that  an  Englishman,  with  his  tory  notions,  his  he- 
reditary love  of  monarchy,  his  loyalty,  woven  in  with 
his  first  lessons  of  life,  is  like  a  '  fish  cut  of  v.^ater '  in 
one  of  your  democratic  assemblies.  I  have,  therefore, 
only  one  thing  to  say,  and  that  will  be  told  in  the  way 
of  a  story. 

"  Some  people,  digging  in  a  sandbank  by  the  seaside, 
in  search  of  Kid's  money,  came  to  a  chest,  with  the  fol- 
lowing inscription,  — '  Take  me  ifj),  and  1  will  tell  you 
wore!'     This  gave  them  fresh  courage,  and  rhey  con- 


THE    POLITICIAN    OF    PODUISK.  10/ 

tinned  their  efforts.  At  length  they  dug  up  the  chest, 
and  on  the  bottom,  they  found  the  following  inscription, 
—  '  Lay  vie  down  as  I  icas  before.^  " 

Having  told  this  story,  the  cobler  departed,  leaving 
his  hearers  to  apply  the  obvious  hint  conveyed  by  the 
legend. 


lf)8 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 


Sporting  through  the  forest  wide, 
Playing  by  the  water  side  ; 
Wandering  o'er  the  heathed  fells, 
Down  within  the  woodland  dells; 
All  among  the  mountains  wild  ; 
Dwelleth  many  a  little  child  ! 
In  the  Baron's  hall  of  pride  : 
By  the  poor  man's  dull  fireside ; 
Mid  the  mighty,  mid  the  mean  ; 
Little  children  may  be  seen  ! 
Like  the  flowers  that  spring  up  fair, 
Bright  and  countless  every  where  ! 

In  the  fair  isles  of  the  main  ; 
In  the  desert's  lone  domain  ; 
In  the  savage  mountain  glen ; 
Among  the  tribes  of  swarthy  men; 
Wheresoe'er  a  foot  hath  gone  ; 
Wheresoe'er  the  sun  hath  shone 
On  a  league  of  peopled  ground  ; 
Little  children  may  be  found  ! 

Blessings  on  them  !     They,  in  me, 
Move  a  kindly  sympathy  ! 
With  their  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 
With  their  laughter  and  their  tears; 
With  their  wonder  so  intense. 
And  their  small  experience! 


LITTLE    CHILDREN.  109 

Little  children,  not  alone 
In  the  wide  earth  are  ye  known ; 
Mid  its  labors  and  its  cares ; 
Mid  its  sufferings  and  its  snares, 
Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  strife, 
In  the  world  of  love  and  life, 
Where  no  sinful  thing  hath  trod. 
In  the  presence  of  our  God  ! 
Spotless,  blameless,  glorified, 
Little  children,  ye  abide  ! 


110 


NICHOLAS  DUNKS,  OR  FRIED  MACKEREL 
FOR  DINNER. 


"  If  I  were  to  say  what  I  should  really  like  to  have 
for  dinner,"  replied  Nicholas,  in  answer  to  his  wife's 
question  upon  the  subject,  '^  it  would  be  fried  mackerel," 
smacking  his  lips  as  he  spoke. 

"Then  that's  just  what  you  won't  have,"  said  Mrs 
Dunks,  as  sharp  as  a  north-east  wind. 

''  Humph!"  quoth  Nicholas. 

''  Ay  !  and  humph  again  !  "  responded  his  better  half 
"  I  've  other  fish  to  fry  to-day,  that  I  can  tell  you." 

"Then  why  did  you  ask  me?"  said  Nicholas. 

'^  Because  I  was  a  fool.  I  might  have  known^  you 
would  be  sure  to  give  all  the  trouble  you  can  on  wash- 
ing day." 

"  Humph!  "  quoth  Nicholas  again,  as  he  took  his  hat 
off  the  nail,  brushed  it  with  the  cuff  of  his  coat,  and 
ckpped  it  on  his  head,  with  the  air  of  a  man  determin- 
ed to  have  his  own  way. 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ? "  said  Mrs.  Dunks. 

"To  get  a  fried  mackerel  for  dinner,"  replied  Nicho- 
las, marching  out  of  the  room,  erect  of  body  and  reso- 
lute of  soul. 

Nicholas  was  right.  A  man  is  no  man  who  cannot 
have  a  fried  mackerel  when  he  has  set  his  heart  upon  it 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS  111 

and  more  oapecially  when  he  has  money  in  his  pocket  to 
pay  for  it.  "Nicholas  Dunks  was  a  tailor, —  a  circum- 
stance which  makes  the  assertion  of  his  prerogative  in 
the  way  we  have  seen  the  more  remarkable  ;  except 
that  tailors  are  proverbial  for  their  love  of  good  living. 
He  was  forty  :  his  wife  forty-two.  He  a  peaceable  man, 
—  she  a  cantankerous  little  body ;  he  sober  and  indus- 
trious, —  she  generally  inclined  to  tipple,  and  always  in- 
clined to  be  idle.  He,  first  lord  of  the  treasury,  —  she, 
one  of  the  tellers  of  the  exechequer,  if  ever  he  went  to 
bed  without  first  counting  his  money.  They  had  been 
married  six  weeks,  —  only  six  weeks,  —  no  more, —  but 
(oh !  shame  to  wedded  life !)  this  was,  at  least,  the  six- 
teenth time  Nicholas  had  found  it  necessary  to  put  on 
his  hat  and  walk  abroad  in  search  of  domestic  bliss. 

On  the  present  occasion,  however,  he  first  went  in 
search  of  his  mackerel,  and  then  in  search  of  the  Blue 
Posts,  a  house  of  call  for  his  tribe,  where  he  meditated 
having  it  fried.  Mrs.  Dunks,  as  soon  as  the  door  closed, 
flounced  into  the  back  kitchen,  muttering  unheard-of 
vengeance  when  he  came  home,  and  began  her  dab 
wash.  Miserable  woman  !  she  little  dreamt  of  all  the 
disastrous  consequences  of  refusing  to  fry  his  mackerel. 
But  we  must  not  anticipate. 

The  tap-room  clock  had  just  struck  two  as  Nicholas 
sat  down  to  one  of  the  finest  mackerel  he  had  ever  clap- 
ped eyes  on,  and  fried  to  perfection.  By  the  side  of  it 
stood  a  foaming  tankard  of  porter,  inviting  his  lips  to 
taste  the  refreshing  draught.  He  yielded  to  the  soft 
persuasion,  and  saw  the  bottom  of  the  pot  before  he  put 
it  down  aorain. 


112  NICHOLAS    DUNKS. 

"  That's  the  way  to  spoil  your  fish,  sir,"  said  a  rud- 
dy-faced man  with  a  merry  twinkling  eye,  who  was  seat- 
ed at  an  opposite  table. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  It  will  have 
something  to  swim  in. 

''Are  you  fond  of  mackerel  ?  " 

''  Very  !  "  responded  Nicholas,  handling  his  knife  and 
fork,  and  preparing  to  cut  the  one  before  him  into  two 
equal  parts. 

"Then  take  my  advice,  and  begin  at  the  tail;  or,  as 
sure  as  my  name's  Jenkins,  you'll  wish  you  had." 

Nicholas  paused.  It  was  very  odd,  he  thought,  what 
could  make  Mr.  Jenkins  trouble  himself  about  his  mack- 
erel ;  and,  for  his  part,  he  had  never  heard  before  of  be- 
ginning at  the  tail.  However,  as  there  might  be  some- 
thing in  it,  he  prepared  to  cut  off  the  tail. 

"  Not  that  way  !  "  exclaimed  Jenkins,  starting  up. 

By  this  time  the  mackerel  was  getting  cold,  and 
Nicholas  hot.  He  looked  at  Mr.  Jenkins  as  if  he 
would  thank  him  to  mind  his  own  business,  and  let  him 
eat  his  mackerel  as  he  liked. 

"Not  that  way,"  repeated  Jenkins;  "don't  cut  the 
tail  off,  but  slide  your  knife  under,  and  pass  it  up  gently 
to  the  head." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Nicholas,  doing  as  he  was  directed,  still 
thinking  there  might  be  some  reason  for  it. 

"  Now,"  continued  Jenkins,  seeing  him  about  to  be- 
gin, "  before  you  proceed  further,  let  me  give  yon  a  sec- 
ond piece  of  advice." 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  quoth  Nicholas. 

"  Another  time  do  n't  let  any  body  persuade  you,  that 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS.  113 

you  don't  know  how  to  eat  a  mackerel.  That's  all. 
Go  on,  sir,  and  I  wish  you  a  good  appetite." 

Nicholas  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork;  and  staring 
fiercely  at  Mr.  Jenkins,  he  exclaimed,  "  For  half  a  far- 
thing I  'd  make  you  eat  it,  and  begin  with  the  head  in- 
stead of  the  tail,  you  trumpery  fellow.  Mind  your  own 
business,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  minding  it,"  answered  Mr.  Jenkins,  with  pro- 
voking coolness. 

"  No,  you  are  not ;  you  are  interfering  with  me  ;  and, 
if  you  do  n't  take  care,  I  '11  soon  let  you  know  that  you 
had  better  leave  me  alone." 

"  My  business,"  said  Jenkins,  laughing  as  he  spoke, 
"  is  to  amuse  myself  with  the  simpletons  of  this  world, 
by  making  them  fall  out  with  themselves.  Pray,  go  on 
with  your  dinner." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  answered  Nicholas,  "  till  I  have  given 
you  a  bit  of  advice  in  return  for  that  which  you  have 
just  given  me."  At  these  words  he  rose  from  his  seat, 
crossed  the  room  towards  w-here  Jenkins  was  sitting, 
and  standing  opposite  to  him,  said,  "  My  advice,  Mr. 
Jenkins,  is  this,  that  you  make  yourself  scarce.  Van- 
ish, Mr.  Jenkins,  or  I'll  knock  that  jolter-head  of  yours 
against  the  wall  till  it  shall  ache  aaain." 

"Try,"  said  Jenkins,  keeping  his  seat. 

Nicholas  turned  up  his  culTs  and  drew  nearer.  Mr. 
Jenkins  laughed. 

"  Take  that!"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  aiming  a  desper- 
ate blow  at  his  face.  Mr.  Jenkins  ducked  his  head, 
Nicholas  knocked  the  skin  off  his  knuckles  against  the 
wall. 


114  NICHOLAS    DUNKS. 

A  scuffle  ensued.  Jenkins  seized  hold  of  Nicholas 
by  the  collar.  Nicholas  twined  his  arms  round  Jenkins 
to  put  him  out  of  the  room.  They  hauled  and  tugged 
at  each  other  for  several  minutes;  at  last  they  both  roll- 
ed upon  the  floor,  upsetting  the  table  on  which  was 
placed  Nicholas's  dinner;  and  now  mackerel,  bread, 
porter,  melted  butter,  vinegar,  mustard,  plates  and  dish- 
es, lay  around  them,  "  confusion  worse  confounded." 

The  landlord  of  the  Blue  Posts  made  his  appear- 
ance and  separated  the  combatants. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  said  he:  "you  have 
been  at  your  tricks  again,  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  ad- 
dressing Jenkins,  who  laughed  immoderately  as  he  sur- 
veyed the  wreck  of  eatables  strev/n  upon  the  sanded 
floor. 

"His  tricks!"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  examining  his 
wounded  knuckles,  and  panting  for  breath.  "I  have 
not  done  with  him  yet.  My  dinner  is  spoiled,  and  he 
shall  pay  for  it  before  he  leaves  the  room." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will,"  answered  Jenkins,  still  laugh- 
ing, "  and,  more  than  that,  you  shall  go  home  and  dine 
with  me  off  something  better  than  fried  mackerel." 

"  Who  are  you?"  inquired  Nicholas  doubtingly,  his 
ire  evidently  giving  way  under  the  double  prospect  of  a 
spoiled  dinner  paid  for,  and  a  good  one  promised. 

"  You  shall  know  by  nightcap  time,"  answered  Jen- 
kins. 

The  landlord,  meanwhile,  had  placed  the  table  on  its 
legs  again,  gathered  up  the  broken  crockery,  etc.,  and 
was  about  to  retire,  when  Jenkins  told  him  to  score  the 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS. 


]J5 


damage  to  his  account,  and  give  him  change  for  a  five- 
pound  note. 

"  Here  's  for  your  wounds,"  said  Jenkins,  counting 
the  change,  and  tossing  a  half-sovereign  to  Nicholas;  — 
"  and  here  's  for  your  balked  appetite  ;  "  he  continued, 
tossing  him  another. 

"  You  're  a  queer  un,"  observed  Nicholas,  looking  at 
the  two  half-sovereigns,  and  then  at  the  donor  with  a  lu- 
dicrous mixture  of  surprise  and  joy,  amazingly  puzzled 
to  make  out  what  it  all  meant. 

"  So  everybody  says,"  replied  Jenkins,  putting  the 
rest  of  the  change  into  his  pocket,  and  motioning 
Nicholas  to  do  the  like  by  the  two  half-sovereigns  that 
lay  before  him. 

"Oh,  I've  no  objection  of  course!"  said  Nicholas, 
and  picked  up  the  money  as  if  he  expected  it  would 
burn  his  fingers,  examining  it  also  as  though  he  thought 
it  must  be  counterfeit.  "  AVell,  if  this  is  n't  a  go,  I 
do  n't  know  what  is  !  "  he  added,  when  he  sav/  they  were 
gold  ;  and  with  a  chuckle  conveyed  them  into  his  waist- 
coat pocket. 

"  And  now,  suppose  we  go?"  rejoined  Mr.  Jenkins, 
rising. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  responded  Nicholas  and  he  fol- 
lowed him  out  of  the  room,  ^vcnderiIlg  what  was  to  come 
next. 

They  gained  the  street.  Pursuing  their  v/alk  in  pro- 
found silence  till  they  reached  the  Strand,  Mr.  Jenkins 
suddenly  addressed  Nicholas.  "That's  a  monstrous 
shabby  hat  of  yours,"  said  he. 


J  16  NICHOLAS    DUNKS. 

"It  is,"  quoth  Nicholas;  "but  it's  my  best  and 
worst." 

*'  Step  into  that  shop,  and  fit  yourself  with  a  better," 
replied  Mr.  Jenkins,  pointing  to  a  hatter's  across  the 
road.  "  Here's  money  to  pay  for  it,  and  I  '11  wait  here 
till  you  return."  He  gave  him,  as  he  spoke,  a  five-pound 
note. 

"  Sure — ly,  he  's  mad  !  "  said  Nicholas,  as  he  entered 
the  hatter's  shop. 

The  purchase  was  soon  made,  and  Nicholas  rejoining 
his  companion,  gave  him  the  change,  —  c£3  15s. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  he,  surveying  Nicholas,  as  he 
put  the  change  in  his  pocket  without  counting  it.  "  Ay, 
now  you  look  a  little  better  ;  but  I  can't  take  you  home 
in  those  clothes,  my  friend  ;  I  must  rig  you  out  in  a  nev/ 
suit  at  one  of  the  ready-made  warehouses  in  Holywell 
Street." 

So  saying,  they  made  for  Holywell  Street,  and,  as  they 
went  along,  Mr.  Jenkins  put  another  note  into  his  hand. 
"  That 's  a  ten,"  said  he  ;  "  you  '11  get  coat,  waistcoat, 
and  trousers,  with  a  pair  of  Wellington's,  for  about  five 
or  six  pounds  ;   and  then  we  '11  to  dinner." 

Arrived  at  the  corner,  Mr.  Jenkins  told  him  to  go  in- 
to the  first  shop  he  came  to,  equip  himself,  and  return. 

"  This  never  can  be  earnest !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas, 
once  more  alone  ;  *'  but  what  the  joke  is,  curse  me  if  I 
can  fathom." 

Nicholas  had  a  conscience,  though  a  tailor.  He  not 
only  selected  a  cheap  suit,  but  gave  Mr.  Jenkins  the 
benefit  of  his  professional  knowledge,  beating  down  the 
price  upon  the  plea  of  such  bad  workmanship  as  none 


MCHOI.AS    DUNKS.  1 17 

but  a  tailor  could  have  discerned.  When  he  returned 
to  where  he  liad  left  Mr.  Jenkins,  he  was  gone. 

He  stood  for  some  moments  looking  about  in  every  di- 
rection, and  was  upon  the  point  of  quitting  his  post,  to 
return  to  the  Blue  Posts,  in  order  that  he  might  learn 
who  Mr.  Jenkins  was,  and  where  he  lived,  when  a  rag- 
ged, dirty  boy  came  running  towards  hijn. 

''  Do  you  want  Mr.  Jenkins  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes.'"' 

*'  He's  v.-aiting  for  you  at  Temple  Bar.  He  gived  me 
this  (holding  up  a  shilling)  to  come  and  tell  you.  He 
said  I  should  see  a  gentleman  v^ith  a  bundle  under  his 
arm,  looking  as  if  he  had  lost  something." 

"  Lost  something  !  "  repeated  Nicholas,  as  he  turned 
in  the  direction  of  Temple  Bar  !  "  Found  something, 
I  think  !"  and  then  he  laughed  at  the  idea  of  being  call- 
ed a  gentleman  !  "  tliough  for  the  matter  of  that,"  he 
added  surveying  himself  as  he  spoke,  "  if  fine  feathers 
make  fine  birds,  I'm  an  outside  gentleman  at  any  rate." 

Thus  soliloquizing,  he  reached  Temple  Bar,  where 
he  found  Mr.  Jenkins  talking  with  a  shabby-looking 
man  dressed  in  a  drab  greatcoat,  long  leather  gaiters, 
his  hat  slouched  over  his  face,  and  a  hucre  cudorel  in  his 
hand  for  a  walking-stick.  As  Nicholas  drew  near,  they 
separated,  but  not  before  the  stranger  had  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  Nicholas  with  such  a  strange,  scrutinizing  expres- 
sion, that  he  shrunk  involuntarily  from  their  gaze. 

"  You  were  a  long  time  suiting  yourself,"  said  Mr. 
Jenkins,  laying  an  empliasis  upon  the  word '^  suiting," 
as  if  he  meant  to  make  a  pun. 

"I  was  driving  a  hard  bargain,"  replied  Nicholas  — 
I 


118  MCHOLAS    DUxNKS. 

"  as  hard  a  one  as  if  it  had  been  my  ov/n  money,  for  I 
hate  to  be  imposed  upon.  I  got  the  -vvliole  for  £S,  19s. 
6d.,  after  a  long  haggle  about  tiie  odd  sixpence." 

"Upon  my  word,"  exclaimed  Jenkins,  receiving  the 
difference  from  Nicholas  as  he  spoke,  "you  have  done 
both  yourself  and  me  justice,  I  must  say.  You'll  do 
now,"  he  added,  looking  at  him  from  head  to  foot,  "  ail 
except  your  hands.     You  must  get  a  pair  of  gloves." 

They  walked  down  Fleet  Street,  and  the  first  hosier's 
they  came  to,  Mr.  Jenkins,  pulling  out  another  five-pound 
note,  gave  it  to  Nicholas,  with  directions  to  go  in  and 
buy  a  pair. 

"Hadn't  you  better  give  me  silver?"  said  Nicholas. 
"  Perhaps  they  won't  have  change." 

**  Perhaps  you'll  try,"  replied  Mr.  Jenkins,  as  he 
walked  on  in  the  direction  to  Bridge  Street. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Nicholas  as  he  left  the  shop,  "  if 
this  is  to  be  the  go,  sure-Ii/  he'll  buy  me  a  shirt." 

Nicholas  was  mistaken.  Mr.  Jenkins  seemed  novv^  to 
be  quite  satisfied,  and  proceeding  eastvv^ard  till  they 
reached  the  neighborhood  of  White-chapel,  he  turned 
into  a  narrow  court,  containing  about  a  dozen  houses. 
Before  the  largest  of  these  he  stepped,  and  taking  a  key 
from  his  pocket,  opened  the  door. 

"  I  hope  dinner  is  ready,"  said  he. 

This  was  the  first  word  he  had  spoken  all  the  way 
from  Bridge  Street. 

"I  hope  so,  too,"  replied  Nicholas,  gaily,"  for  I'm 
as  hungry  as  a  wolf" 

They  entered  a  dark  passage,  Mr.  Jenkins  closing 
and  lockinor  the  door  after  him. 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS.  1  19 

"  This  way,"  said  he,  ascending  a  flight  of  stairs 
which  Nicholas  could  only  dimly  descry,  and  up  which 
he  stumbled  more  than  once  in  following  his  guide. 

Arrived  on  the  first  landing,  Mr.  Jenkins  unlocked 
the  door  of  a  rather  spacious  apartment,  the  furniture 
of  which  was  remarkable  for  its  unostentatious  charac- 
ter, consisting  chiefly  of  one  large  deal  table,  that  occu- 
pied the  centre  of  the  room,  and  four  or  five  wooden 
chairs.  In  the  corner,  near  a  fireplace  that  had  no  grate, 
stood  a  massive  piece  of  f;irniture,  with  numerous  draw- 
ers, on  the  top  of  which  lay  sundry  curiously  shaped  im- 
plements. 

"  I  hope  dinner  is  ready,"  repeated  Mr.  Jenkins,  as 
he  walked  up  to  the  massive  piece  of  furniture  above 
described  ;  and,  unlocking  one  of  the  drawers,  deposit- 
ed in  it  something  which  he  took  from  his  pockets. 
"  By-the-by,"  lie  continued,  still  emptying  his  pocket  of 
their  contents,  with  his  back  towards  Nicholas,  "I  nev- 
er once  thought  to  ask  you  your  name." 

"  Nicholas  Dunks." 

"  Nicholas  Dunks,  eh  1  A  queer  name  that.  And 
of  vv'hat  trade  of  calling  ?  " 

"  A  tailor." 

"  A  tailor,  eh  ?     And  where  do  you  live  ?  " 

''In  Maiden  Lane,  Covent  Garden." 

"Married?" 

''  Yes." 
•     "  Any  children?" 

"  No." 

**  Married  and  no  children  !      Very  strannre  !" 


120  MLHOLAS    DUMvS. 

"  Not  at  all  ;  there  hasn't  been  time.  I  only  went  to 
church  last  Sunday  was  six  weeks." 

"Nicholas  Dunks  —  tailor  —  of  Maiden  Lane,  Co- 
vent  Garden  —  married  —  no  family  —  aged  ?  " 

"  Forty." 

"  Aged  forty.  That's  your  description,  eh  ?"  turning 
round,  and  surveying  Nicholas  as  he  spoke. 

"You  may  add,  if  you  like,  and  very  hungry,"  said 
Nicholas,  forcing  a  laugh  rather  than  laughing ;  for  he 
began  to  feel  queer  at  these  interrogatories,  and  to  ap- 
pearances of  things  in  general. 

"  Good,"  ejaculated  Mr.  Jenkins,  joining  in  the  laugh ; 
"good  —  I  hope  dinner  is  ready." 

''  That's  the  third  time  of  asking,"  rejoined  Nicholas, 
"so  it  ought  to  be." 

"  A  wag,  too,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Jenkins. 

There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door.  "  Come  in,'' 
said  Jenkins. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  withered  old  woman,  in  tat- 
tered garments,  begrimed  with  dirt,  appeared.  Putting 
her  "  choppy  finger  upon  her  skinny  lips,"  by  which,  as 
it  seemed,  her  errand  was  conveyed,  she  waited  silently 
for  orders. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Jenkins,  "  we'll  come  directly." 

The  ancient  sybil  withdrew,  leering  curiously  at 
Nicholas. 

"Now,  Dunks,"  he  continued,  "  let  us  go  to  dinner. 
I'm  sure  you  iiiusi  be  hungry." 

"  That  am  T,"  quoth  Nicholas,  rising  to  follow  his 
host. 

They  decended   to  the  ground  floor,  crossed   a  dark 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS.  121 

narrow  passige,  ascended  another  flight  of  stairs,  and 
entered  a  small,  comfortable-looking  room,  from  which 
daylight  was  excluded,  its  absence  being  supplied  by  an 
argand  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling.  Upon  a  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  dinner  was  spread,  consisting 
of  several  dishes,  whose  savory  odor  would  have  whet- 
ted a  duller  appetite  than  was  Nicholas's  at  that  moment. 

"  Take  your  seat,  Dunks,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  pointing 
to  a  chair  at  the  bottom  of  the  table.  "  Remove  the 
covers,  Richard,"  he  continued,  addressing  a  man-ser- 
vant who  stood  behind  him. 

The  dish  opposite  Nicholas  being  uncovered  disclosed 
a  delicious  fried  mackerel. 

"  There,  Dunks,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  laughing, ''  when 
I  promised  you  should  dine  off  something  better  than  a 
fried  mackerel,  I  did  not  mean  you  should  go  without 
one." 

*'  Am  I  to  begin  at  the  tail  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas,  wax- 
ing jocose  at  the  sight  of  his  favorite  dish. 

''  As  you  like,  /zf?v,"  replied  Jenkins  :  "  but,  as  long 
as  you  live,  you  'II  never  forget  the  fried  mackerel  at  the 
Blue  Posts,  I  guess." 

At  that  moment,  Nicholas,  raising  his  eyes,  met  those 
of  Richard,  who  was  handing  him  some  bread.  He 
started.  Where  had  he  seen  that  indescribable  look  be- 
fore? A  moment's  reflection  told  him.  It  was  at  Tem- 
ple Bar  —  the  man  with  whom  Jenkins  was  conversing. 
But  this  could  not  be  he  :  the  dress  —  the  figure  —  were 
difterent:  the  expression  of  the  eye  alone  was  the  same. 
It  was  odd,  he  thought,  that  two  men  should  possess  such 
a  remarkable,  such  a  peculiar,  such  a  veri/  peculiar  look, 
I  * 


122  MCHOLAS    DUNKS. 

and  that  he  should  have  met  witli  tlieni  both  in  one  day. 
The  matter  thus  settled  to  his  satisfaction,  he  ate  his 
mackerel :  yet  ever  and  anon  stealing  a  glance  at  Rich- 
ard, and  never  doing  so  v.ithout  finding  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  him. 

Dinner  over,  the  cloth  was  vvitlidvawn,  and  Jenkins 
and  Nicholas  set  to,  ttte-a-tdc,  over  a  bottle  of  port. 
The  wine  was  really  good,  but  Nicholas  thought  it  su- 
perlatively so.  They  drank  and  laughed,  and  chatted, 
and  grew  as  cosy  as  if  they  had  kncvrn  each  other  for 
years.  Jenkins  told  droll  stories,  sang  droll  songs,  and 
pushed  the  bottle  backwards  and  forwards  like  a  liberal 
host;  so  that,  what  with  laughing,  talking  and  drinking, 
Nicholas  began  to  see  double,  just  as  the  door  opened, 
and  a  gentleman,  fassionably  drcL-sed,  v.earing  green 
spectacles,  entered  the  room. 

"Ah!  Franklin,  is  that  you?"  exclaimed  Jenkins, 
jumping  up,  and  shaking  him  cordially  by  the  hand  — 
"  well,  now,  I  consider  this  very  kind  indeed  to  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  so  soon  after  your 
return  to  London.  Sit  down;  v/e '11  have  clean  glass- 
es and  another  bottle.  I  beg  pardon  —  I  forgot  to  in- 
troduce my  friend;  Mr.  Dunks  —  Mr.  Franklin." 

Nicholas  rose  from  his  chair  with  that  balanced  state- 
liness  which  men  are  wont  to  assume  when  they  feel  a 
difficulty  in  preserving  their  centre  of  gravity,  and  mak- 
ing a  profound  bow,  sat  down  again.  Mr.  Franklin  re- 
turned the  salutation  with  less  formality,  but  equal  po- 
liteness. 

**Well,  and  how  are  the  ladies,  Mrs.  Franklin,  and 
that  pretty  daughter  of  yours  ?  "  inquired  Jenkins,  as  he 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS.  Vl'S 

filled  his  glass  troiii  h  fresh  bottle.  "I  hope  you  found 
them  quite  well  on  your  return." 

"Quite,"  replied  Mr.  Franklin;  "they  will  be  here 
presently  to  answer  for  themselves." 

Ladies  coming,  thought  Nicholas;  and  one  of  them 
"that  pretty  daughter!" — what  should  he  do?  He 
could  get  on  pretty  well  with  men  ;  but  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing to  converse  with  ladies  daunted  him.  He  wished  he 
could  find  an  excuse  to  slip  away,  and  go  home  to  Mrs. 
Dunks.  The  wine  had  made  him  uxorious,  and  clean 
obliterated  her  refusal  to  fry  a  mackerel  for  his  dinner. 
If  wives  knew  all,  they  would  never  quarrel  with  their 
husbands  for  taking  a  littJc  ivine.  It  makes  them  so 
good-natured,  and  as  pliable  as  an  old  glove. 

While  ruminating  upon  these  matters,  he  happened 
to  look  at  iMr.  Franklin.  At  the  same  moment,  Mr. 
Franklin  happened  to  look  at  him  over  his  green  spec- 
tacles; and  Nicholas  saw  two  eyes,  which  he  had  seen 
twice  before  that  day, — the  first  time  at  Temple  Bar  ;  the 
second,  while  they  v^ere  at  dinner.  He  could  not  be 
mistaken.  The  eyes  were  the  same  :  but  he  could  trace 
no  other  resemblance.  Mr.  Franklin  was  as  unlike 
Richard,  as  Richard  was  unlike  tlie  shabby-looking 
man  in  the  drab  coat,  long  leather  gaiters,  and  slouched 
Int.  Why,  he  could  not  tell  ;  but  there  was  something 
about  these  mysterious  eyes  which  made  him  feel  queer. 
"  Beware!  "  was  in  every  glance;  a  mingled  expression 
of  cunning  and  ferocity,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am 
setting  a  trjip,  and  eager  to  pounce  upon  the  prey." 

It  M  wonderful  what  some  men  will  do  under  the  gen- 
erour-  influence  of  the  grape.     Nicholas  suddenly  took 


124  NICHOLAS   DUNKS. 

it  into  his  head  that  he  should  like  to  see  Richard  in  the 
room  along  with  Mr.  Franklin,  in  order  to  compare 
their  eyes  ;  so,  stretching  out  his  legs  in  a  free-and-easy 
manner,  and  admiring  his  new  Wellington's,  he  said, — 
*'  Jenkins,  I  wish  you  would  let  your  man-servant  call  a 
coach  for  me.  It 's  getting  late,  I  'm  afraid,  and  Mrs. 
Dunks  will  be  alarmed. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  replied  Jenkins,  "  then  I  'Jl  ring 
the  bell ;  but  we  must  finish  this  bottle  before  we  sepa- 
rate." 

Jenkins  rang  the  bell ;  and,  filling  his  own  glass  to 
the  brim,  called  for  bumpers,  as  he  had  a  toast  to  give. 
When  Nicholas  and  Mr.  Franklin  were  ready,  Jenkins 
proposed  the  health  of  Mrs.  Dunks,  —  "a  lady,"  said  he, 
"  whom  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing,  but  hope 
to  do  so  before  long." 

The  toast  having  been  '^  duly  honored,"  as  the  gentle- 
men of  the  press  say,  Nicholas  rose  to  acknowledge  it, 
which  he  did  in  a  few  expressive  words. 

He  sat  down  and  turned  his  eyes  towards  to  door  to 
watch  for  the  entrance  of  Richard. 

"  I  see  you  are  anxious  to  be  gone,"  said  Jenkins; 
"where  can  that  fellov/  be?"  and  he  rang  the  bell 
again  Vv'ith  great  violence. 

Presently  it  was  answered,  not  by  Richard,  but  the 
withered  harridan  who  had  announced  dinner. 

"  I  want  Richard,"  said  Jenkins  ;  "  what's  tiie  reason 
he  docs  not  answer  the  bell  ?  " 

The  shrivelled  hag  said  nothing,  l)ut  leered  signifi- 
cantly at  her  master.     "  Bid  him   fetch  a  couch  for  Mr. 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS.  125 

Dunks,"  he  continued;  "and  —  do  you  hear  ?  —  send 
up  coffee  directly." 

"  V/ell,"  thought  Nicholas  to  himself,  "  if  this  a'n  't 
going  it  strong,  I  don  't  know  what  is  :  '  IMister  Dunks' 

—  and  'fetch  a  coach  for  Mister  Dunks;'  and  'bring 
up  coffee  ! '  Mrs.  Dunks  won  't  believe  a  word  of  it,  1 
know." 

"  Are  you  related  to  the  Dunkses  of  Staffordshire?" 
said  Mr.  Franklin,  addressing  Nicholas. 

"  I  rather  think  I  am,"  he  replied  ;  "  for  my  father 
came  out  of  Yorkshire  and  settled  in  London  ;  so  did 
my  mother,  and  I  knov/  she  was  a  Cornish  woman." 

"  The  Dunkses  of  Staffordshire  are  a  very  ancient 
fumily,  I  believe,"  observed  Jenkins. 

"  Very,"  replied  Mr.  Franklin  ;  "  they  came  in  with 
William  the  Conqueror," 

"  I've  often  heard  my  father  talk  of  him,"  said  Nich- 
olas ;  "  but  I  don'  t  know  whether  they  came  to  Lcndon 
together." 

By  this  time  Nicholas  scarcely  knew  any  thing.  The 
wine  had  steeped  his  senses  in  forgetfulness,  and  he  be- 
gan to  roll  about  in  his  chair  as  if  his  stomach  was  not 
comfortable.  Coffee  was  brought  in.  He  took  one 
cup ;  and  a  ^q\w  minutes  after  fell  fast  asleep,  while  mut- 
tering something  about  "  Richard  —  a  long  while  gone 

—  to  coach —  and  what  would  Mrs.  Dunks  think  ?" 
And  what  f//r/Mrs.  Dunks  think  when  eleven  o'clock 

came,  and  twelve  o'clock,  and  no  Nicholas?  What 
would  any  wife  think,  whose  husband  had  gone  out  as 
Nicholas  went  out,  and  had  stayed  out  as  he  was  stay- 


126  NICHOLAS    DUNKS. 

ing  out?     Why,  of  nothing  but  what  she  would  say  to 
him  when  he  did  come  home. 

The  matrimonial  philippic  had  been  rehearsed  over 
and  over  again,  from  the  exclamatory  exordium  —  "  So, 
you've  made  your  appearence  at  last  !"  —  to  the  imper 
ative  peroration  —  "  and  now  please  come  to  bed,"  until 
she  had  the  whole  of  it  so  pat,  that  she  grew  every  mo- 
ment more  and  more  impatient  to  be  delivered  of  it. 

Alas!  that  momeni  never  came!  The  night  passed 
away — the  following  day  —  the  ensuing  week  — 
months  —  years — and  the  disconsolate  Mrs.  Dunks 
sought,  in  vain,  tidings  of  her  lost  husband.  Then  it 
was,  that,  in  the  anguish  of  her  bereaved  heart,  she 
would  often  exclaim  —  "  Oh,  that  I  had  fried  his  mack- 
erel for  him  !" 

''  Isn't  it  very  remarkable,"  she  v/ould  frequently  say 
to  her  friends,  "  what  can  have  happened  to  my  poor 
dear  Nicholas?  A  kinder  husband  never  existed;  and 
he  doated  upon  me,  which  makes  me  feel  certain  he 
must  have  dropped  down  dead  where  nobody  saw  him, 
or  else  he  went  to  bathe  in  the  Thames  and  was 
drowned  ;  but  I  wish  I  knew  the  fact,  because  then  "  — 
and  then  she  would  stop  suddenly,  and  begin  to  talk  of 
the  difficulty  of  an  unprotected  widov/  woman  getting 
through  the  world. 

Fourteen  years  and  upwards  she  had  passed  in  this 
state  of  cruel  suspense,  still  living  in  the  same  house, 
and  "getting  through  the  world  "  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
so  as  always  to  have  a  tolerably  comfortable  home ; 
when  one  day,  during  the  mackerel  season,  she  was 
summoned  to  the  street  door  by  a  loud  knock,  which  to 


NICHOLAS    DUiNKS.  ]27 

use  her  own  words,  "  almost  made  her  jump  out  of  her 
skhi."     She  opened  it,  and  — 

"  Will  you  let  me  have  a  fried  muckerel  for  dinner?" 
quoth  Nicholas ! 

Mrs.  Dunks  screamed.  She  would  have  swooned  too, 
but  she  had  not  time  to  do  that,  and  ran  into  the  back 
parlor  to  tell  Mr.  Sowerby  to  run  out  of  the  back  door, 
and  make  his  escape  over  the  back  wash-house. 

Mr.  Sowerby  was  a  journeyman  glazier,  who  had 
called  that  very  morning  to  settle  finally  about  his  union 
with  Mrs.  Dunks. 

Mrs.  Dunks,  the  moment  she  saw  him  safe  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wash-house,  went  into  strong  hysterics, 
and  Nicholas  sprinkled  her  face  with  cold  water,  while 
tears  of  joy  ran  down  his  cheeks,  to  think  how  the  dear 
creature  was  overcome  at  seeing  him. 

Oh,  woman  I — but  what's  the  use  of  moralizing? 
Don't  we  all  know  what  a  woman  is?  And  what  are 
we  the  better  for  our  Icnowledge?  Don't  we  believe 
them  just  the  same  ?  To  be  sure.  Besides,  is  it  not 
clear  that  Providence  intended  it  to  be  so?  Where 
would  be  the  use  of  creating  the  beautiful  deceivers,  if 
there  were  not  in  the  world  that  simple-witted  creature, 
man,  to  be  as  quietly  deceived  the  nincty-ninlh  time  as 
he  was  the  first.  The  heart  of  the  latter,  and  the  art 
of  the  former,  were  as  much  meant  for  each  other,  as 
the  mouth  and  the  stomach.  W^e  have  often  thought 
that  fate  and  free-will  were  very  like  man  and  woman. 
In  both  cases  we  think  we  do  as  we  like;  whereas,  in 
both  cases,  we  are  impelled  by  causes,  whose  immedi- 
ate influence  over  us  we  do  not  discern. 


r28  NICHOLAS    DU.NKS. 

Nicholas  could  hardly  believe  his  senses  when  he  saw 
the  state  to  which  his  afFectionate  wife  was  reduced,  by 
the  sudden  shock  his  unexpected  return  had  given  to 
her  feelings;  and  he  secretly  vowed  to  repay  such  de- 
voted love,  by  studying  her  happiness  all  the  rest  of  his 
life. 

But  now  to  clear  up  the  mystery  of  his  long  absence. 

We  left  him  fast  asleep  in  tlie  company  of  Jenkins 
and  Franklin.  Whether  it  was  the  wine  alone,  or 
whether  the  coffee  contained  something  else  besides  milk 
and  sugar,  we  will  not  take  upon  ourselves  to  say  ;  but 
certain  it  is,  he  slept  so  soundly,  that  he  was  put  to  bed 
without  knowing  any  thing  about  it,  and  that  he  did  not 
awake  next  morning  till  he  was  pretty  roughly  handled 
by  a  person  standing  at  his  bed-side. 

"  Come,  friend,"  said  he,  rolling  him  to  and  fro,  "  I 
am  sorry  to  disturb  you  ;   but  my  business  Vv'on't  wait." 

"  Wliat  is  your  business,  and  vrho  are  you?"  asked 
Nicholas  half  asleep  and  half  awake. 

"  My  name's  Sloman" — 

"I  don't  know  you,"  interrupted  ?s^ichola?,  turning 
round  on  the  other  side,  and  settling  himself  for  another 
sleep. 

"  And  I  have  a  warrant  for  your  apprehension  "  — 

**  A  what !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas,  starting  up. 

"  A  warrant  for  your  apprehension.  " 

"I  warrant  you  have  n't, "replied  Nicholas,  lying 
down  again  with  his  back  to  the  man,  and  pulling  the 
clothes  over  liis  shoulders. 

*'  Is  your  name  Nicholas  Dunks?" 

-Yes." 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS.  129 

"  Are  you  a  tailor  ? " 

"Yes." 

*'  Do  you  live  in  Maiden  Lane,  Covent  Garden  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  married  1 " 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  any  children  ?" 

"  No. " 

"  Is  your  age  forty-two  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  it's  all  right  —  so  just  turn  out  and  come 
along.*' 

At  each  successive  question  Nicholas  grew  more  and 
more  awake;  and  each  successive  "yes,"  was  given  in 
a  tone  of  increasing  amazement.  But  by  this  time  a 
distinct  recollection  of  the  preceding  day's  adventures 
began  to  dawn  upon  him,  and  he  inquired  for  Mr.  Jen- 
kins, ]\Ir.  Franklin,  Richard,  and  even  the  old  woman; 
at  which  Mr.  Sloman  only  laughed,  and  asked  if  he  wcs 
still  dreaming,  or  whether  he  thought  to  "  do  liim." 

Further  explanations  took  place,  and  Nicholas  found 
that  he  was  "  done  ;  "  for  Mr.  Sloman  gave  him  to  under- 
stand he  was  a  police-officer,  that  the  warrant  he  held 
was  for  his  apprehension,  as  one  of  an  extensive  gang, 
concerned  in  passing  forged  notes,  and  that  several 
tradesmen  were  ready  to  come  forward  v/ho  had  sold 
him  a  hat,  clothes,  gloves,  (fcc,  for  vrhich  he  paid  with 
those  notes.  Nicholas  protested  his  innocence.  Slo- 
man said  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  that,  his  business 
being  to  make  a  capture  of  his  person,  and  convey  bim 
before  the  magistrates. 

K 


J30  NICHOLAS    DUNKS. 

*'  What  a  villain,  wliat  an  infernal  villain,  that  Jen- 
kins must  be!"  exclaimed  Nicholas  to  himself,  while 
pulling  on  his  new  Wellingtons,  "  to  sell  an  innocent 
man's  life  in  this  way  !" 

"As  to  your  innocence,"  remarked  Mr.  Sloman, 
rummaging  the  pockets  of  Nicholas'  clothes  as  he  spoke, 
and  drawing  from  one  of  them  a  small  red  morocco  case, 
**I  shouldn't  w'onder  if  this  was  to  furnish  evidence  of 
it.  Ay  —  I  thought  so,"  he  continued,  with  a  malicious 
grin,  opening  the  case,  and  taking  out  a  roll  of  bank 
notes  —  "here's  a  pretty  lot  of  them  —  all  fives  and 
tens,  and  finished  off  equal  to  the  regular  Threadneedle 
Street  flimsies.  Where  did  your  innocence  get  these, 
eh?  If  you'll  peach,  and  give  us  a  hint  how  to  find  the 
place  where  these  came  from,  perhaps  that  mny  save 
you." 

Nicholas  clasped  his  hands  together,  and  called  heav- 
en to  witness  that  the  pocket-book  was  not  his,  and  that 
he-could  n't  tell  how  it  came  into  his  possession. 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  caught  a  full  view  cf 
Mr.  Sloman's  face,  and  started  with  amazement.  These 
were  the  same  eyes  he  had  thrice  seen  before  !  And 
now  that  he  surveyed  the  person  to  whom  they  belonged, 
enveloped  in  a  rough  greatcoat,  with  a  colored  silk 
handkerchief  round  his  neck,  he  thought  he  could  trace 
a  strong  resemblance  to  the  man  at  Temple  Bar,  though 
not  to  cither  Richard  in  his  livery,  or  Mr.  Franklin, 
with  his  green  spectacles  and  fashionable  evening  dress. 

Nicholas  was  right.  The  man  at  Temple  Bar,  Rich- 
ard, Mr.  Franklin,  and  Mr.  Sloman  the  thief-taker,  were 
all  one  and  the  simo  person.     In  his  Ip.st-mcntioned  ca- 


NICHOLAS   DUNKS.  131 

pacity,  (which  constituted  his  regular  calling,)  he  had 
entered  into  a  conspiracy  with  Jenkins,  (whose  real 
name  was  Homerton,  a  notorious  dealer  in  forged  notes,) 
to  victimize  Nicholas  for  a  double  purpose ;  first,  to  en- 
title himself  to  a  portion  of  the  reward  which  had  been 
offered  for  discovering  the  gang,  or  apprehending  any 
individual  belonging  to  it;  and  secondly,  to  turn  aside 
from  the  real  delinquents  the  inquiries  that  were  on  foot 
in  every  direction.  The  meeting  between  Jenkins, 
alias  Homerton,  and  Nicholas,  was  purely  accidental ; 
nor  did  he,  in  the  first  instance,  anticipate  the  use  he 
afterwards  made  of  him.  Being  a  bit  of  a  humorist, 
and  fond  of  practical  jokes,  he  intended  nothing  more 
than  to  enjoy  a  laugh  at  his  expense,  when  he  recom- 
mended him  to  begin  his  mackerel  at  the  tail ;  but  the 
very  success  of  that  clumsy  piece  of  wit  pointed  him 
out  as  a  fit  person  upon  w'hom  to  practice  the  diabolical 
trick  which  was  afterwards  contrived.  While  this 
scheme  was  only  as  yet  half  formed,  he  chanced  to  run 
against  Sloman,  at  the  corner  of  Norfolk  Street,  who 
told  him  of  the  hot  inquiries  that  wefe  being  made  by 
the  Bank,  and  how  diflicult  it  would  be  to  stave  them 
off  much  longer  without  making  some  disclosures,  real 
or  pretended,  that  might  amuse  the  lawyers,  and  put 
them  upon  another  scent.  This  intelligence  determined 
Jenkins  to  make  use  of  Nicholas  at  all  hazards,  and 
trust  to  his  Old  Bailey  resources  for  carrying  him 
through. 

His  confidence  in  these  resources  was  justified  by  the 
event.  In  vain  did  poor  Nicholas  tell  his  story,  with- 
out any  coloring,  or  shadow  of  coloring,  relating  all  the 


182  NICHOLAS    DUNKS. 

circiiiiist'dnces  precisely  as  they  had  occurred.  It  \yas 
literally  laughed  out  of  court,  where  the  hatter,  the  ho- 
sier, and  the  Jew  salesman  from  Holywell  Street,  ap- 
peared to  identify  him  as  the  person  w^ho  had  passed  the 
forged  notes.  The  solicitor  for  the  prosecution  tried 
every  means  to  persuade  him  to  denounce  his  confed- 
erates. His  resolute  and  unvarying  declaration,  that  he 
had  none,  and  that  he  himself  had  been  duped,  w^as  re- 
garded as  an  aggravation  of  his  crime,  and  a  proof  that 
under  the  seeming  simplicity  of  his  character  was  con- 
cealed the  hardened  resolution  of  a  practised  oiTender  : 
facts  v.'hich  were  prominently  set  down  in  the  brief,  and 
most  eloquently  expounded  by  the  counsel.  Even  the 
judge  could  not  restrain  his  indignation  at  the  audacity 
of  the  prisoner's  defence,  in  his  charge  to  the  jury  ; 
and  the  jury  were  so  satisfied  they  saw  before  them  one 
of  the  most  hardened  of  the  srancr,  who  was  resolved  to 
know  nothing,  that  the  verdict  of  guilty  was  upon  all 
their  lips  long  before  the  trial  was  brought  to  a  conclu- 
sion. 

Nicholas  was  sentenced  lo  transportation  for  fourteen 
years. 

"  If  I  deserve  that,^'  said  he,  "  I  deserve  hanging." 

"  What's  that  the  fellow  is  muttering?  "  inquired  the 
judge. 

"  He  says  he  deserves  hanging,  my  lord,"  replied  the 
turnkey,  who  was  standing  by  his  side  in  the  dock. 

**  I  know  it,"  answered  his  lordship,  **  but  I  've  looked 
at  the  statute  under  which  he  is  indicted,  and  I  can't 
hang  him." 

This  was  said  with  so  much  concern,  as  if  his  lord- 


NICHOLAS    DUA'KS.  133 

ship  veally  regretted  his  inability  to  give  the  prisoner  his 
deserts  according  to  his  own  estimate  of  them,  that  an 
audible  titter  ran  through  the  court. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  as  soon  as  he  was  left 
to  his  meditations,  "  so  I  am  to  cross  the  Jicrrir^g-^ond, 
it  seems,  and  if  that  isn't  making  a  pretty  kettle  ofjish 
of  my  fried  mackerel  I  do  n't  know  what  is  !  Oh  I  if  I 
had  that  rascal  Jenkins  here  just  now,  or  that  evil-eyed 
scoundrel  v/ho,  I  suspect,  has  had  more  to  do  with  it 

even  than  Jenkins,  wouldn't  I  " and  he  struck  out 

right  and  left,  with  his  clenched  fists,  several  times,  to 
shov/  what  these  worthies  might  have  expected  at  his 
hands  had  they  been  within  reach  of  them.  Then  he 
tiiought  of  dear  Mrs.  Dunks,  and  how  she  would  won- 
der what  had  become  of  him,  and  be  puzzled  to  know 
what  to  do ;  but  no  tenderness  mixed  with  his  thoughts, 
—  for,  tracing  matters  up  to  their  original  causes,  he, 
like  most  husbands,  but  in  this  instance  with  more  jus- 
tice than  husbands  commonly  have,  laid  the  whole  bur- 
den of  his  calamity  upon  his  wife's  shoulders.  As  thus  : 
"If  I  could  have  had  a  fried  mackerel  at  home,  I 
shouldn't  have  gone  to  the  Blue  Posts;  if  I  hadn't 
crone  to  the  Blue  Posts,  I  should  n't  have  met  with  Jen- 
kins:  and,  if  I  hadn't  met  with  Jenkins,  I  shouldn't 
have  been  here."  Aristotle  himself  could  not  have  rea- 
soned more  logically ;  and  the  result  of  his  reasoning 
was,  that  as  Mrs.  Dunks  had  been  the  cause  of  all,  she 
might  get  through  her  share  of  it  in  the  best  way  she 
could.  lie  was  even  malicious  enough  to  find  a  balm 
for  his  own  troubles  in  what  he  considered  the  retribu- 
tive troubles  that  awaited  her.     In  due  course  of  time 

K  * 


134  NICHOLAS    DUMiS. 

lie  arrived  at  his  destination,  —  not  the  first  innocent 
man  whom  our  admirable  criminal  jurisprudence  and 
that  bulwark  of  our  liberties,  trial  by  jury,  have  visited 
with  the  punishment  due  to  guilt,  upon  the  clearest  evi- 
dence, and  after  the  most  patient  investigation  of  facts. 
Happy  England  !  where,  if  the  wrong  person  happened 
to  be  hanged,  he  has  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  it  is 
by  the  laws'  decree,  and  not  by  the  arbitrary  mandate  of 
a  tyrant.  To  a  true-born  Englishman,  Avhose  venera- 
tion for  the  law  is  at  least  equal  to  his  love  of  law,  this 
reflection  must  be  very  consolatory. 

Among  those  marvellous  accidents  which  occasional- 
ly befall  us  in  our  way  to  the  grave,  was  one  which  hap- 
pened to  Nicholas  while  he  sojourned  at  Botany  Bay. 
His  good  conduct,  his  inoitensive  manners,  and  the  na- 
ture of  his  certified  offence,  which  had  nothing  of  deep 
or  desperate  villany  about  it,  soon  obtained  for  him  as 
large  a  remission  of  the  penalties  attached  to  his  sen- 
tence as  it  was  within  the  discretionary  power  of  the 
authorities  to  grant;  and  he  was  allowed,  under  certain 
restrictions,  to  carry  on  his  trade.  This  indulgence  he 
turned  to  such  good  account,  that  in  a  few  years  he  had 
amassed  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  kept  several 
journeymen,  and  was  the  very  Schultze  of  Paramatta. 
His  celebrity  was  such  that  he  imparted  his  own  name 
to  a  particular  description  of  shooting-jacket,  peculiarly 
adapted  to  the  climate  and  country,  which  to  this  dny, 
we  believe,  is  called  a  Dunks. 

That  shooting-jacket  led  to  the  marvellous  accident 
above  mentioned.  When  it  was  in  the  height  of  its 
pr^piilarity,  and   when   everybody  who   could    aftcrd   it 


NICHOLAS    I)U-\KS»  j;35 

wore  a  Dunks  whether  they  went  out  shooting  or  not, 
the  name  attracted  the  notice  of  an  aged  convict  who 
had  been  transported  for  life,  and  who  had  already  passed 
nearly  forty  years  in  the  colony.  He  kept  a  sort  of 
public-house,  and  being  of  penurious  habits  on  the  one 
hand,  and  of  rapacious  ones  on  the  other,  his  tens  gradu- 
ally swelled  to  hundreds,  and  his  hundreds  to  thousands, 
till  old  Jc7n  Bunker,  as  he  w^as  called,  (though  that  Avas 
not  supposed  to  be  his  real  name),  passed  for  a  second 
llotlischild. 

One  day  he  came  tottering  into  Nicholas'  work-room 
to  order  a  Dunks  for  himself  While  Nicholas  was 
taking  his  measure,  the  old  man  eyed  him  with  great 
earnestness,  but  said  nothing,  and  soon  after  left  the 
place,  giving  strict  injunctions  to  Nicholas  to  bring  the 
shooting-jacket  home  himself,  and  to  be  sure  not  to  send 
it  by  any  of  his  men. 

Nicholas  humored  the  old  fellow,  and  when  the  jacket 
Avas  finished  took  it  home;  but  instead  of  trying  it  on, 
as  he  wished,  to  see  Avhether  it  Avas  a  good  fit,  or  Avanted 
any  alteration,  Jem  Bunker  took  it  quietly  from  his  hand, 
laid  it  on  a  table,  and  bade  him  sit  down. 

"  What  made  you  call  these  jackets  Dunkscs  ?  "  said 
he. 

"/didn't  christen  them.  I  only  made  them;  peo- 
ple took  it  into  their  heads  of  their  oAvn  accord  to  call 
them  after  me." 

"Are  7/ou  a  Dunks  1  " 

**  So  my  mother  ahvays  told  me." 

"  It 's  rather  an  uncommon  name,"  remarked  the  old 
man. 


13G  >'ICHOLAS    DUNK3. 

"  Ah  !  "  observed  Nicholas  with  a  sigh,  remembenng 
what  Jenkins  said  when  he  heard  it  for  the  first  time, 
"  you  are  not  the  only  person  who  has  told  me  that,  as  I 
have  good  reason  to  know^" 

"  You  've  mentioned  your  mother  ;  who  was  your 
father?" 

"  I  'm  not  a  wise  son,"  replied  Nicholas,  laughing. 

"Perhaps  a  prodigal  one?"  rejoined  Jem  Bunker. 

"  Not  much  of  that  neither,  for  I  had  nothing  to  be 
prodigal  with.  My  father  died,  as  I  have  heard  my 
mother  say,  when  I  was  in  my  cradle ;  and  who  or  what 
he  was,  I  never  had  the  curiosity  to  inquire." 

"  Where  did  your  mother  live?" 

"  In  London." 

"What  part?" 

"  A  great  many  parts  ;  but  the  first  that  I  remember 
was  Saffi-on  Hill,  where  I  went  to  school ;  then  she  re- 
moved to  Shoe  Lane  ;  after  that  to  Barbican  ;  then  to 
Smithfield  Bars  :  then  to  Gray's  Inn  Lane ;  then  to 
Whitechapel ;  then  back  to  Barbican ;  and  then  to 
Green  Arbor  Court,  Old  Bailey,  where  she  died,  poor 
soul,  of  a  scarlet  fever.  Lord  !  I  remember  all  the 
places  as  well  as  possible.  Oh  dear,  I  wish  I  was  in 
one  of  them  now  !  " 

'*  Was  your  mother  tall  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  she  was  ;  they  used  to  call  her  the  grena- 
dier, at  Whitechapel." 

"  Did  she  stammer  in  her  speech  ?  " 

"  Yes,  particularly  when  she  got  into  cue  of  her 
towering  passions,  which  was  pretty  often." 

"  Whnt  other  children  had  she  ? " 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS.  137 

"None  —  I  am  her  only  son  and  heir." 

"  And  she  called  you " 

"  I  was  christened  Nicholas,  but  she  always  called  me 
Nick,  for  short.  'Nick,'  said  she,  the  day  she  died,  '  if 
I  don  't  recover,  bury  me  in  St.  Giles's  churchyard,  for 
there's  where  I  was  married.'  " 

"Enough!"  interrupted  Jem  Bunker,  starting  from 
his  chair,  and  tottering  towards  Nicholas,  he  threw  him- 
self into  his  arms,  exclaiming  "  My  sen  !   my  son  !  " 

"  Not  very  likely,"  thought  Nicholas  to  himself,  as 
the  old  man  hugged  him,  and  kept  repeating  the  words 
—  "  my  son  !  ray  son  !"     But  he  said  nothing. 

"  Lord  !  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  see  and  touch 
one's  own  flesh  and  blood,  after  so  many  years,"  con- 
tinued Jem,  looking  Nicholas  full  in  the  face  as  he 
spoke,  and  clasping  his  hands  between  his,  with  a  fer- 
vor and  tenderness  too  true  to  nature  to  be  mistaken. 
"I  am  a  transported  felon,"  said  he,  "and  doomed  to 
die  in  this  strange  land  ;  but  thank  God  !  thank  God  !  I 
am  a  father  !  "  and  tears  that  gushed  forth  afresh,  and 
trickled  down  his  aged  cheeks,  attested  the  sincerity  of 
his  feelings. 

"  Thank  God,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  as  it  seems  to 
make  you  so  happy,  I  have  no  objection  to  be  your  son, 
I  having  no  other  father  to  claim  me,  do  you  see ;  but 
as  to  the  fact  of  my  being  so,  I  really  think  it's  all  gam- 
mon." 

"  Hush,  hush,"  interrupted  the  old  man,  wiping  his 
eyes  and  becoming  more  composed  ;  "  vou  don  't  know 
what  you  say.     Death  may  come  now  as  soon  as  it  likes 


138  MCIIOLAS    DU^'KS. 

—  I  have  nothing  else  to  live  for.  But  I  wish  your 
mother  had  answered  my  letters." 

"  She  could  'nt  write,  you  know%"  replied  Nicholas. 
*'  You  forgot  that,  father." 

"Ah  !  well,  you  may  jest  as  much  as  you  like,"  said 
the  old  man  ;  "  but  if  you  are  my  son,  you  have  a  flesh 
mark  on  the  right  arm,  just  above  the  elbow,  shaped 
like  a  pear." 

"  To  be  sure  I  have,  to  be  sure  I  have  !  "  exclaimed 
Nicholas,  stripping  off  his  coat,  and  rolling  up  his  shirt 
sleeve,  and  showing  the  mark  with  an  amazed  counten- 
ance—  "  and  my  mother  has  often  told  me  —  " 

"  She  has  often  told  you,"  interrupted  Jem  Bunker, 
"  that  her  husband  flung  a  ripe  pear  at  her  one  day  as 
she  sat  asleep,  the  shock  gf  which  terrified  and  awoke 
her." 

"  To  be  sure  she  did,"  said  Nicholas,  who  now  in  his 
turn  threw  himself  into  the  old  man's  arms,  exclaiming, 
'*  my  father  !  —  my  father  !  —  only  think  of  my  finding 
you  here,  and  making  that  jacket  for  you  ! " 

The  truth  must  be  told.  Jem  Bunker,  alias  "  Ned 
Dunks,"  had  been  transported  for  horse-stealing.  He 
was  sentenced  to  die  ;  but  there  were  some  circumstan- 
ces in  his  case  which,  upon  being  represented  in  the 
proper  quarter,  obtained  a  commutation  of  his  punish- 
ment ;  and,  instead  of  forfeiting  his  life,  he  was  sent 
out  of  the  country  for  life.  Often  did  his  spirit  yearn 
towards  his  native  land  :  often  had  he  written  to  his 
wife,  entreating  her  to  join  him  ;  often  had  he  thought 
in  sadness  and  sorrow  upon  the  infant  he  saw  sleeping 
in  its  cradle,  the  evening  he  was  torn  from  his  fireside 


NICHOLAS    DUNKS.  139 

by  the  Bow  Street  officers,  who  called  to  "  inquire  if  he 
was  at  home  ;  "  for,  though  a  horse-stealer,  he  was  the 
owner  of  a  heart  that  might  have  shamed  many  a  proud 
and  titled  keeper  of  horses,  in  its  natural  affections  for 
kith  and  kin.  This  was  touchingly  shown  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion  ;  for  after  the  first  violence  of  his  feelings 
had  abated,  he  gazed  upon  his  son  in  silence  during  a 
few  moments,  and  then  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  said  in  a 
tremulous  voice  —  "  Well,  I  have  found  you,  my  dear 
Nicholas,  when  I  little  expected  to  do  so,  and  now  I 
shall  go  down  to  my  grave  in  peace,  blessing  God's  holy 
name  for  his  great  mercy  —  nay,  my  son,  do  not  smile 
as  if  you  wondered  to  hear  mc  talk  of  God  and  his  holy 
name.  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  know  the  awful 
meaning,  as  well  as  the  amazing  comfort,  of  these  words  ; 
to  know  that  as  the  world  fall^  ^w^yj  si^d  the  space  be- 
tween us  and  the  grave  narrows  to  a  mere  span  of  life,- 
v\e  cannot,  if  we  would,  keep  our  thoughts  from  busy- 
ing themselves  with  v*'hat  is  to  happen  there,"  raising 
his  withered  hand  towards  heaven  as  he  spoke. 

Religious  admonition,  proceeding  from  aged  lips,  has 
power  to  awe,  for  the  moment  at  least,  the  wildest  and 
most  unthinking  spirit.  Nicholas  had  never  been  so 
spoken  to  before.     He  felt  abashed  and  was  silent. 

"  Yes  my  son,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  I  do  receive 
you  as  a  blessing  from  the  hand  of  God,  sent  to  shed  the 
light  of  happiness  upon  my  parting  hours;  but"  —  and 
he  paused  —  "  but  —  hut  you  too  arc  a  convict  J^ 

"  I  am,"  said  Nicholas,  his  face  reddening  as  he 
spoke  ;  "  but  I  thank  God  I  'm  innocent  as  you  are  of 
the  crime  laid  to  my  charge." 


140  NICHOLAS    DUNKS. 

"  We  have  a  great  many  innocent  convicts  here,"  re- 
plied his  father  significantly;  "  indeed  it  is  a  rare  case 
to  find  one  who  is  not  innocent," 

*'  I  den  't  know  how  that  may  be,"  answered  Nicho- 
las, "but  as  for  myself,  what  I  do  know  is,  that  the 
iudofe  oLicrht  to  have  been  handed  who  tried  me,  and  the 
jury  too." 

"Perhaps  you'll  tell  me?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  interrupted  Nicholas,  "  I  '11  tell  you  all 
about  it  in  a  very  few  words." 

He  then  proceeded  to  relate  the  adventures  with  which 
the  reader  is  already  familiar.  When  he  had  concluded, 
his  father  dropped  upon  his  knees,  and  offered  up  a  fer- 
vent thanksgiving  to  God  for  having,  as  he  expressed  it, 
"  restored  a  son  to  him,  upon  whom  he  could  look  with- 
out any  other  shame  than  that  of  being  his  father  !" 

About  a  year  after  the  occurrence  of  these  events, 
Jem  Bunker,  alias  "  Ned  Dunks,"  breathed  his  last  in 
his  son's  arms,  having,  before  he  died,  conveyed  to  him 
by  will  the  whole  of  his  property,  amounting  to  several 
thousand  pounds.  With  this,  as  soon  as  the  law  per- 
mitted, he  returned  to  England;  the  first  man,  pgrhaps, 
tiiat  ever  made  his  fortune  by  going  out  to  dinner,  be- 
cause he  could  not  have  the  dinner  he  wanted  at  heme. 
But  tlius  dotii  Providence  over-rule  our  ways,  and  fish- 
ion  our  hereafter  happiness  out  of  the  very  dross  and 
dregs  of  our  present  misery  ! 

It  now  only  remains  to  be  told  th  U  Nicholas  Dunks 
lived  to  a  good  old  age,  at  his  villa  near  Edmonton, 
which  he  insisted  upon  calling  "  MA<;KEnr,L  Hocse  ;'' 
tint  Mr?.  Dunks  died  soon  after  his  return,  wliich  probn- 


NICHOLAS    DUKKS.  \4[ 

bly  was  the  reason  why  he  lived  so  long  himself;  that 
he  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  friend  Mr.  Jenkins 
hung  at  the  Old  Bailey,  one  fine  morning  in  June,  for 
forgery;  that  he  left  his  money,  &:.c.,  to  the  Fishmon- 
gers' Company,  for  the  purpose  of  building  alms-houses 
for  decayed  fishmongers,  with  the  condition  annexed, 
that  they  should  have  fried  mackerel  for  dinner,  every 
Sunday,  while  they  were  in  season ;  and  lastly,  that, 
strange  to  say,  the  immediate  cause  of  his  own  death  was 
a  mackerel  bone  that  stuck  in  his  throat,  on  the  an- 
niversary, which  he  always  religiously  kept,  of  the  day 
he  went  to  the  Blue  Post  to  dine  off  a  fried  mackerel 
himself. 


143 


THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 


I  lovj:  it,  I  love  it;  and  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  ine  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair  ? 

I  've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize, 

I  've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  and  embalmed  it  with  sighs 

'T  is  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  m}"-  heart ; 

Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 

Would  ye  learn  the  spell  ?  a  mother  sat  there, 

And  a  sacred  thin^  is  that  old  arm-chair. 


In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 
The  hallowed  seat  v;ith  listening  ear  ; 
And  gentle  words  that  mother  v.'ould  give. 
To  fit  me  to  die  and  teach  me  to  live. 
She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide, 
With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide 
She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer, 
As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 


I  sat  and  w^atchcd  her  many  a  day. 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were  gray  ; 

And  I  almost  worshipped  her  v/hen  she  smiled 

And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 

Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped  — 

My  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-star  fled  ; 

I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 

When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-cha.ir. 


THE    Ol-U    ARM-CHAIR.  143 

'T  is  past  !   't  is  past  !  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 

With  quivering  breaili  and  throbbing  brow  : 

'T  was  tlicre  she  nursed  me,  't  was  there  she  died  ; 

And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 

Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak. 

While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek  ; 

But  I  love  it,  1  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 

My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 


144 


FORGET  THEE? 


Forget  thee  ?  —  If  to  dream  by  night,  and  muse  on  thee  by  day  ; 

If  all  the  worship  deep  and  wild  a  poet's  heart  can  pay, 

If  prayers  in  absence,  breathed  for  thee  to  heaven's  protecting 

power. 
If  winged  thoughts  that  flit  to  thee  —  a  thousand  in  an  hour. 
If  busy  Fancy  blending  thee  with  all  my  future  lot. 
If  this  thou  call'st  "  forgetting,"  thou,  indeed,  shalt  be  forgot ! 


Forget  thee  ?  —  Bid  the  forest  birds  forget  their  sweetest  tune  : 
Forget  thee  ? —  Bid  the  sea  forget  to  swell  beneath  the  moon  ; 
Bid  the  thirsty  flowers  forget  to  drink  the  eve's  refreshing  dew  ; 
Thyself  forget  thine   "own  dear  land,"   and  its  "mountains 

wild  and  blue  ;  " 
Forget  each  old  familiar  face,  each  long  remember'd  spot; 
When  these  things  are  forgot  by  thee,  then  thou  shalt  be  forgot. 


Keep,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  maiden  peace,  still  calm  and  fancy-free  ; 
For,  God  forbid  !  thy  gladsome  heart  should  grow  less  glad  for 

me  ; 
Yet,  while  that  heart  is  still  unwon,  oh,  bid  not  mine  to  rove. 
But  let  it  muse  its  humble  faith,  and  uncomplaining  love  ; 
If  these,  preserved  for  patient  years,  at  last  avail  me  not, 
Forget  me  then  ;  —  but  ne'er  believe  that  thou  canst  be  forgot. 


45 


PERPETUAL  ADORATION 


The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine  ; 
My  temple,  Lord,  that  arch  of  thine  ; 
My  censers  breathe  the  mountain  airs, 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 


My  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves, 
When  murmuring  homeward  to  their  caves 
Or,  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea. 
Even  more  than  music,  breathes  of  thee. 


I  '11  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  unknown, 
All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  throne  ; 
And  the  pale  stars  shall  be,  at  night. 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 


Thy  heaven,  on  which  't  is  bliss  to  look, 
Shall  be  my  pure  and  shining  book. 
Where  I  shall  read,  in  words  of  flame, 
The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 


I  '11  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack. 

That  clouds  awhile  the  day-beam's  track 

Thy  mercy,  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  bri,'xhtncss,  brcakJlng  through 


146  HOPE. 

There's  nothing  bright,  above,  below, 
From  flowers  that  bloom,  to  stars  that  glow, 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  thy  Deity. 


There  's  nothing  dark,  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  love  ; 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again. 


HOPE. 

There  is  a  star  that  cheers  our  way 

Along  this  dreary  world  of  wo. 
That  tips  with  light  the  waves  of  life. 

However  bitterly  they  flow. 

'T  is  Hope  !   't  is  Hope  !  that  blessed  star  ! 

Which  peers  through  Misery's  darkest  cloud 
And  only  sets  where  Death  has  brought 

The  pall,  the  tombstone,  and  the  shroud. 

But,  ah  !  to  look  upon  the  dead, 

And  know  they  ne'er  can  wake  again  ; 

To  lose  the  one  we  love  the  best;  — 
Oh  God  !  it  scars  the  breast  and  brain. 

Then,  then,  the  human  heart  will  groan, 
And  j)ine  beneath  the  stroke  of  Fate; 

'T  will  break,  to  find  itself  alone, 
A  thing  all  sad  and  desolate. 


147 


WINTER. 


Winter  is  coming  !  who  cares  ?  who  cares  ? 

Not  the  wealthy  and  proud  I  trow ; 
"  Let  it  come,"  they  cry,  "  what  matters  to  us 

How  chilly  the  blast  may  blow  ; 

"  We  '11  feast  and  carouse  in  our  lordly  halls, 

The  goblet  of  wine  we  '11  drain  ; 
We  '11  mock  at  the  wind  with  shouts  of  mirth, 

And  music's  echoing  strain. 

"  Little  care  we  for  the  biting  frost, 
While  the  fire  gives  forth  its  blaze  ; 

What  to  us  is  the  dreary  night. 

While  we  dance  in  the  waxlight's  rays  ?  " 

'T  is  thus  the  rich  of  the  land  will  talk ; 

But  think  !  oh,  ye  pompous  great, 
That  the  harrowing  storm  yc  laugh  at  within 

Falls  bleak  on  the  poor  at  your  gate ! 

They  have  blood  in  their  veins,  aye,  pure  as  thine 
But  naught  to  quicken  its  flow  ;  — 

They  have  limbs  that  feel  the  whistling  gale. 
And  shrink  from  the  driving  snow. 

Winter  is  coming  —  oh  !  think,  ye  great, 
^  On  the  roofless,  naked,  and  old  ; 

Deal  with  them  kindly,  as  man  with  man. 
And  spare  them  a  tithe  of  your  gold ' 


148 


THE  WELCOME  BACK. 


Sweet  is  the  hour  that  brings  us  home, 

Where  all  will  spring  to  meet  us ; 
Where  hands  are  striving,  as  we  come, 

To  be  the  first  to  greet  us. 
Wiien  the  world  hath  spent  its  frovrns  and  wrath 

And  care  been  sorely  pressing  : 
'T  is  sweet  to  turn  from  our  roving  path, 

And  find  a  fireside  blessing. 
Oh,  joyfully  dear  is  the  homeward  track, 
If  we  are  but  sure  of  a  welcome  back. 


What  do  we  reck  on  a  dreary  way. 

Though  lonely  and  benighted. 
If  we  know  there  are  lips  to  chide  our  stay. 

And  eyes  that  will  beam  love-lighted  ? 
What  is  the  worth  of  your  diamond  ray, 

To  the  glance  that  flashes  pleasure ; 
When  the  words  that  welcome  back  betray. 

We  form  a  heart's  chief  treasure  ? 
Oh,  joyfully  dear  is  our  homeward  track, 
If  we  are  but  sure  of  a  welcome  back. 


149 


POOR  WILL  NEWBERY. 


These  words  have  occasionally  haunted  my  memory 
for  more  than  twenty  years,  and  still  vibrate  on  my  ear 
in  the  same  mournful  tone  of  grief,  regret,  and  tender- 
ness, as  I  last  heard  them  uttered  by  one,  through  the 
course  of  whose  life  the  sentiment  that  gave  indescriba- 
ble pathos  to  the  simple  ejaculation,  "  Ah,  poor  Will 
Newbery  !  "  had  never  been  forgotten. 

"  Ah,  poor  Will  Newbery  !  "  v/ho  and  what  was  he? 
It  "was  a  mystery  to  the  younger  part  of  our  household. 
In  the  neighborhood,  in  the  whole  extent  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, there  were  none  who  bore  that  name,  nor 
was  it  associated  with  any  of  our  family  traditions,  al- 
though they  went  back  through  several  generations ;  yet 
his  identity  we  could  not  doubt,  and  we  associated  some- 
thing very  romantic  and  dismal  with  the  name  of  this 
unknown  and  mysterious  person.  And  now,  methinks, 
I  cannot  give  due  effect  to  my  simple  recital,  without 
introducing  my  readers  to  the  circumstances  which  kept 
the  seal  of  secrecy  so  long  unbroken.  I  liave  alluded 
to  one  in  whose  bosom  this  secret  seemed  mournfully 
treasured.  She  was  a  gentlewoman  far  advanced  in 
years,  my  maternal  aunt,  Mrs.  Lloyd. 

J  may,  perhaps,  hereafter,  have  occasion  to  mention 
the  circumstances  that  rendered  her  an  inmate  in  our 
house.     It  is  suflicient  to  my  present  purpose  to  state, 


150  POOR    >VILI.    NEMliKRY. 

that  she  was  extremely  beloved  and  respected  by  the 
family  with  whom  she  dwelt,  and  especially  interesting 
to  those  between  whose  age  and  her  own  lay  an  affect- 
ing sojourn  of  so  many  years;  nor  is  it  singular  that 
these  travellers  in  an  unknown  world  should  be  pecu- 
liarly acceptable  to  the  curiosity  and  inexperience  of 
childhood  and  youth  :  but  that  difference  of  age,  which 
did  not  preclude  the  most  amiable  and  delightful  sym- 
pathies, would  have  prevented  any  approach  to  familiarity 
on  the  subject  in  question  ;  and  it  was  only  when  she 
sat  in  a  state  of  deep  abstractedness,  evidently  imagin- 
ing herself  alone,  or  forgetful  of  those  around  her,  that 
we  ever  heard  her  thus  ejaculate,  "  Ah,  poor  Will  New- 
bery ! " 

I  have  at  this  instant  before  me  the  face  and  figure  of 
that  fine  old  age,  as  she  sat  in  that  dim  hour  of  evening 
which,  in  the  stillness  of  country  life,  is  so  conducive 
to  meditation  and  reflection.  In  the  old-fashioned  par- 
lor, which  was  the  common  family  room,  we  sat  one  or 
more  of  us,  abstracted  and  silent  as  herself,  watching 
the  last  fading  colors  in  the  distant  horizon,  when  a 
deep  sigh  would  draw  our  attention,  and  our  eyes  in- 
stantly turning  on  our  venerable  relative,  we  again  be- 
held the  clasped  hands,  the  supplicating  uplifted  coun- 
tenance, and  heard  again  the  affecting  apostrophe  to  the 
never  forgotten  dead,  "  Ah !  poor  Will  Newbery ! " 
There  were  four  of  us,  and  if  we  were  all  present,  ac- 
tuated by  the  same  feeling,  we  stole  out  of  the  room  so 
quietly  that  not  a  step  could  be  heard;  and  then,  at  that 
romantic  period  of  girlhood,  in  the  pensive  tAvilight,  did 
we  walk  in  our  garden  or  orchard,  and  alone,  or  togeth- 


POOR    WII,I,    NEWBERT.  151 

er,  meditate  or  converse  in  conjectures  on  the  circum- 
stances that  could  so  have  hallowed  the  memory  of 
"poor  Will  Newbery." 

We  had  for  a  long  time,  each  of  us,  entertained  an 
idea  that  he  must  have  been  the  lover  of  her  by  whom 
he  was  so  tenderly  remembered  ;  and  at  last  we  began 
to  communicate  our  thoughts  on  the  subject  to  each 
other;  for  whatever  we  thought,  we  talked  very  little  of 
love;  and  never,  as  I  recollect,  till  the  approaching 
night  threw  its  vail  over  our  faces,  did  our  lips  dare  to 
utter,  oh,  how  softly  !  the  few  and  cautious  words  that 
gave  expression  to  our  sentiments. 

The  extreme  reserve  that  was  always  observed  by  the 
heads  of  our  family  on  this  subject,  continued,  no  doubt, 
to  protract  our  shyness  beyond  the  usual  period  when 
confidential  intercourse  is  generally  estublished  ;  but  an 
event  occurred  which  introduced  it  cautiously  indeed, 
but  at  oiice,  into  our  family  conversation  ;  this  was  the 
marriage  of  a  young  lady,  one  of  our  very  few  relatives. 
Bride  favors  vvcre  of  course  sent  to  us.  We  received 
them  with  blushes,  and  appeared  in  them  at  church  on 
the  following  Sunday  with  downcast  looks.  I. remem- 
ber that  for  some  days  after  this  event,  we  frequently 
found  our  mother's  eyes  fixed  on  us  with  an  unusually 
thoughtful  expression.  The  eldest  of  us  then  was  about 
seventeen,  a  year  older  than  the  young  bride.  A  short 
time  after,  we  were  sitting  together  in  cur  garden  bow- 
er ;  the  evening  closed  in  upon  us  slowly  and  impercep- 
tibly ;  our  little  pieces  of  work  rested  in  our  hands  in 
our  lips  ;  Julia's  bcrkVas  closed  ;  ihc  spirit  of  musing 
stole  over  us,  and  we  sat  quite  silent,  until  a  deep  sigh 


]52  rOOR    WILL    NEWBERY. 

from  my  mother  was  followed  by  a  few  remarks  which 
had  nothing  particular  in  them,  but  which  riveted  our 
attention  from  the  manner  in  which  they  were  spoken. 
But  it  is  not  my  purpose  here  to  relate  the  whole  of  my 
mother's  discourse  of  that  evening  ;  it  is  sufficient  to 
state,  that  while  she  held  up  to  her  daughters'  example, 
with  inimitable  simplicity,  the  conduct  of  a  line  of  fe- 
males distinguished  for  their  virtue  and  piety,  with  a 
voice  that  suddenly  faltered,  she  acknowledged  that  there 
was  one  whose  youth  had  been  marked  by  an  error,  so 
serious  in  itself  and  pitiable  in  its  consequences,  that 
all  the  succeeding  years  of  her  long  life,  regulated,  as 
they  had  been,  by  the  strictest  rules  of  morality  and 
I)iety,  had  not  been  able  to  obliterate  it  from  her  mem- 
ory. "  Ah,  poor  Will  Nevvbcry,"  added  my  mother, 
"  is  all  I  have  ever  heard  from  her  ov/n  lips  on  the  sub- 
ject." Oh  !  that  I  could  give  my  readers  any  portion  of 
that  intense. curiosity  with  which  we  listened  to  the  de- 
velopement  of  this  long  pending  mystery  !  but  vain  as 
this  Vv'ish  is,  the  incident  is  in  itself  so  singular,  that  I 
am  induced  to  offer  a  slight  sketch  of  the  life  and  char- 
acter of  her  whose  otherwise  simple  history  it  so  unfor- 
tunately distinguished. 

Mrs.  Anne  Johnson,  my  father's  maternal  aunt,  was 
the  eldest  daughter  of  a  substantial  yeoman  at  Up  Ottery, 
in  Devonshire.  He  would  perhaps,  in  these  days,  have 
been  called  a  gentleman  farmer,  for  he  rented  consider- 
ably, and  was,  beside,  the  owner  of  a  small  freehold  ; 
but  the  title  was  not  then  in  existence,  and  he  was  a 
plain,  sensible  man,  who  coveted  not  titles,  or  any  thing 
that  belonged  to  them,  if  we  except  the  youngest  daught- 


POOR    WILL    NEWBERY.  153 

ter  of  a  neighboring  baronet.  As  he  was  a  very  hand- 
some man,  he  succeeded  in  gaining  the  young  lady's  fa- 
vor, and  she  became  his  wife,  but  without  the  consent 
of  her  father,  who  never  bestowed  any  fortune  on  his 
offendinor  dauf^hter.  Of  this  remote  and  somewhat  un- 
equal  alliance  I  never  heard  any  thing  more,  than  that 
the  lady  lived  very  happily  with  the  husband  of  her 
choice. 

In  the  first  years  of  her  marriage  she  became  the 
mother  of  two  daughters,  —  Anne,  the  subject  of  this 
memoir,  and  Margaret,  who  was  my  grandmother. 
When  Anne  was  in  her  sixteenth  year,  her  father  receiv- 
ed a  proposal  of  marriage  for  her  from  a  young  man, 
whose  situation  and  character  were  such  as  to  render  the 
prospect  of  her  union  with  him  very  agreeable  to  both 
her  parents.  To  their  daughter,  however,  Mr.  New- 
bery's  proposal  appeared  in  a  very  different  light :  happy 
in  herself  and  in  her  home,  without  one  care  for  the 
present  or  one  anxiety  for  the  future,  a  proposal  so  seri- 
ous as  that  of  marriage  startled,  disturbed,  and  intimi- 
dated her,  and  she  entreated  that  her  parents  would  al- 
low her  to  decline  Mr.  Newbery's  addresses;  but  as  she 
continued  to  declare,  in  answer  to  every  anxious  inter- 
rogatory, that  her  heart  was  perfectly  free  from  any  pre- 
dilection in  favor  of  another,  they  imagined  that  her  in- 
difference towards  Mr.  Newbery,  and  her  reluctance  to 
marriage,  might  be  conquered  by  the  tenderness  and  de- 
votedness  of  an  affection  which  appeared  to  themselves 
so  amiable  and  generous,  and  they  positively  forbade  her 
declining  his  addresses. 

Her  parents  had  not  so  entirely  forgotten  their   own 

M 


154  rOOK    WILL    NEWBEIIY. 

feelings  as  to  have  entertained  a  thought  of  forcing  their 
daughter's  affections ;  but  where  there  was  no  affection, 
where  the  heart  was  free,  they  thought  it  was  quite  rea- 
sonable and  proper  that  they  should  dispose  of  it  them- 
selves, to  a  handsome  young  man,  whom  Anne  would  be 
sure  to  love  as  a  husband,  however  cold  and  reserved  she 
might  be  to  him  as  a  lover.  Assailed  at  once  by  paren- 
tal authority,  and  parental  kindness,  Anne  gave  a  reluc- 
tant consent.  The  day  for  the  union  was  fixed,  and  all 
due  preparation  made  for  solemnizing  the  nuptials.  The 
day  opened  auspiciously,  and,  in  the  primitive  and  sim- 
ple manners  of  that  remote  period,  the  v.diole  wedding 
party  walked  across  the  fields  to  the  parish  church  at 
Up  Ottery. 

How  Anne  went  through  the  ceremony  I  never  heard 
related,  but  it  is  probable  she  betrayed  no  other  emotion 
than  might  properly  be  imputed  to  her  youth  and  timidi- 
ty. I  have  said  that  the  whole  wedding  party  attended 
to  witness  the  solemnization  of  the  nuptials.  It  was  a 
large  party  ;  and,  upon  leaving  the  church,  the  bride, 
declining  the  arm  of  him  who  did  not  appear  to  pre- 
sume upon  a  right  so  recently  obtained,  mixed  v/ith 
those  young  companions  who  had  attended  her  upon  the 
occasion. 

The  wedding  party  was,  by  some  chance,  broken  in- 
to little  groups,  and  when  they  all  assembled  in  the  great 
hall  of  her  father's  house,  the  bride  was  not  amongst 
them.  She  had  not  been  missed  sooner,  because  one 
group  had  imagined  she  had  joined  the  other.  "  But 
where  was  the  bride  now  1  She  must  have  returned  be- 
fore them —  was  in   her  garden   or   in   her    chamber." 


POOR    WILL    NEWBERY,  155 

The  garden  and  chamber  were  searched  —  Anne  was 
not  to  be  found.  Inquiries  were  made  of  the  servants 
—  they  had  not  seen  their  young  mistress.  "  She  was 
certainly  not  returned  then."  Her  companions  all  de- 
clared this  was  some  little  jest  of  Anne's  —  she  was  al- 
ways so  lively  —  she  had  certainly  given  them  the  slip 
coming  from  church,  in  order  to  make  them  search  for 
her  —  they  knew  all  her  haunts;  and  they  were  all  off 
instantly,  in  high  glee,  for  a  game  of  hide  and  seek  with 
the  pretty  bride.  In  about  an  hour  they. dropped  in 
again,  with  the  inquiry,  "  Who  has  found  Anne  ?  " 
And  the  last  scout  had  returned,  and  still  Anne  was  not 
found. 

When  the  jest  hrst  began  to  wear  a  serious  aspect  — 
when  the  breast  of  the  bridegroom  was  stricken,  and  the 
countenances  of  the  parents  fell,  and  the  jests  of  the 
assembled  party  turned  into  assurances  that  no  harm 
could  have  liappened  to  Anne,  can  only  be  imagined  ; 
but  in  a  few  hours  the  whole  household  were  out  in  search 
of  her.  As  the  evening  advanced,  increasing  terror 
spread  from  house  to  house,  and,  during  the  whole  of 
the  night,  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  were  cut  for 
miles  in  quest  of  her.  The  old  men,  leaning  upon  their 
sticks,  and  women,  with  children  in  their  arms,  were 
standing  at  the  yard  gates  of  her  father's  house,  to  catch 
the  first  tidings.  The  lights  in  the  deserted  house  were 
dismal  to  behold;  where  no  one  rested  for  a  moment, 
but  where  returning  guests  came  only  to  find  disappoint- 
ment, and  to  hurry  otT  again  with  lessening  hope  and 
increased  alarm  ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the 
consternation   and   dismay  that  pervaded  every  breast, 


156  POOR    WILL    NEWBERY. 

and  spoke  in  every  look,  when  the  morning  broke  upon 
their  unavailing  search.  As  the  day  advanced,  every 
pond  and  well  for  miles  round,  was  dragged,  —  messages 
were  sent  in  every  direction ;  yet,  notwithstanding  this 
general  and  strict  inquiry,  no  clue  could  be  found  to  ac- 
count for  the  mysterious  absence  of  her,  to  whom  all 
now  began  to  assign  some  terrible  destiny. 

It  is  probable  that  those  bosoms  which  were  the  first 
given  up  to  fear,  were  the  last  in  which  some  slight  hope 
of  her  return  was  totally  extinguished ;  but  when  day  pass- 
ed after  day,  and  weeks  and  even  months  came  into  the 
reckoning,  when  this  appalling  event  was  named,  those 
flittings  of  hope  hovered  only  for  an  instant  over  the 
darkest  abysses  of  terror  and  dismay.  Her  parents  and 
sister  had  at  least  some  companionship  in  their  strange 
and  heart-appalling  circumstances  ;  but  the  miserable 
husband  was  alone  in  his  grief;  alone  he  wished  to  be 

—  he  soon  ceased  to  seek  sympathy  in  kindred  or  friend 

—  he  absented  himself  from  his  habitation  for  days  and 
weeks  together ;  no  one  would  doubt  that  he  went  in 
search  of  her  whom  he  had  thus  mysteriously  lost ;  but 
upon  his  return  he  soon  ceased  to  make  any  communi- 
cation whither  he  had  been,  and  the  looks  with  which 
he  was  received  anticipated  his  own  inquiries. 

Month  after  month  passed  away,  but  time,  whose  le- 
nient influence  soothes  other  griefs,  only  increased  the 
despair  of  the  forlorn  and  bewildered  man.  By  degrees 
his  health  and  strength  failed  him,  but  the  blow  had 
come  upon  him  in  the  vigor  of  youthful  manhood,  and 
the  struggle  of  grief  with  youth  and  strength  was  long 
and  doubtful,  although  deadly  at  last.     When  his  strength 


POOR    WILL    NEWBERY.  157 

became  so  exhausted  that  his  feeble  Hmbs  could  carry 
\\\m  no  fiu'ther,  he  still  continued  to  walk  to  the  church 
where  Anne  had  become  his  bride.  He  always  took  the 
same  path,  and  was  observed,  in  certain  spots,  in  deep 
abstractedness  of  mind ;  but  he.started  if  a  leaf  fell  at  his 
feet,  or  at  the  rustling  of  the  wind,  or  the  flitting  of  a 
shadow,  and  the  earnest  gaze  of  his  sunken  eye  bespoke 
a  blended  feeling  of  expectation  and  fear.  It  was  a  look 
of  intense  desire  to  behold  some  object,  but  of  doubt 
and  dread  whether  that  object  were  of  this  or  of  another 
world.  He  used  to  stand  for  whole  hours  at  the  church 
porcli,  on  the  very  spot  vv'here  he  h:id  last  parted  from 
Anne.  The  late  villager,  or  the  sojourner  returning  to 
his  home,  sometimes  passed  within  sight  of  him  with 
feelings  of  the  deepest  commiseration,  but  no  one  in- 
truded upon  a  grief  that  seemed  to  admit  not  of  comfort 
or  alleviation.  Had  the  unhappy  man  stood  by  the  grave 
of  his  bride,  consolation  might  have*  lighted  upon  his 
soul,  as  the  soft  dews  f:dl  from  heaven  :  nay,  had  the 
earth  opened  and  buried  her  quick  before  his  eyes,  even 
this  calamity  would  not  have  been  so  dreadful  as  was 
his. 

At  the  end  of  two  years,  the  friends  who  had  attended 
him  in  the  triumph  and  exultation  of  his  heart  to  the 
nuptial  shrine,  bore  the  corpse  of  the  unfortunate  young 
man  to  his  long  home  of  forgetfulness  and  rest;  and 
the  concern  and  pity  not  only  of  friend  and  relative,  but 
of  the  whole  neighborhood  that  had  marked  the  decline 
of  his  health  and  strength  in  that  long  and  bitter  strug- 

o  o  o 

gle,  were  now  awakened  afresh  for  her  who  had  occasion- 
ed it.     What  were  the  feelings  of  Anne's  parents  then. 


158  POOR    WILL    NEWBERY. 

and  what,  when,  a  few  days  afterwards,  they  received  a 
letter  from  their  long  lost  daughter,  no  pen  can  possibly 
describe.  And  she,  their  daughter,  was  well,  —  in  secu- 
rity, and  wanting  only  their  forgiveness  to  be  at  peace ; 
and  he,  the  victim  of  her  caprice,  whom  they  had  loved 
almost  as  their  own  son,  for  whom  they  had  felt,  even  in 
the  midst  of  their  own  anguish,  unutterable  pity,  —  he 
was  newly  in  his  grave,  and  no  art  could  restore  his 
broken  heart,  no  tidings  could  reach  his  ear. 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  though  satisfaction  was 
mingled  with  the  first  feelings  of  surprise  and  indigna- 
tion, sentiments  of  resentment  and  displeasure  were 
soon  uppermost  in  their  minds. 

Anne's  beauty  and  sprightly  and  amiable  disposition 
had  rendered  her  a  general  favorite  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  those  who  had  loved  her  had  never  ceased  to  deplore 
a  fate  so  singular,  mysterious,  and  fearful ;  but  no  soon- 
er had  the  tidings  spread  abroad,  than  every  voice  and 
every  hand  were  raised,  accusing,  reproaching,  and  up- 
braiding her  cruel  conduct. 

But  in  pursuing  the  narrative,  it  is  best  now  to  return 
to  the  morning  of  that  unfortunate  and  fatal  marriage, 
which  had  probably  no  sooner  been  completed  than  the 
hitherto  reluctant  girl  and  now  revolting  bride  determin- 
ed on  sudden  and  instant  flight.  Thus  resolved,  she 
found  little  difficulty  in  withdrawing  unobserved  from 
such  a  party  as  I  have  described,  passing  through  small 
enclosures  with  hedges,  intersected  with  lanes  and  where 
spots  of  coppice  wood  and  orchard  were  interspersed. 
The  first  point  gained,  that  of  withdrawing  herself  with- 
out observation    or  suspicion,   her    knowledge   of   the 


POOR    WILL    NEWEERY.  159 

country  for  some  miles  round  enabled  her  to  pass  to  a 
considerable  distance  by  a  track  the  most  uninhabited, 
and  by  paths  the  most  unfrequented. 

It  is  not  probable  that  in  a  resolution  thus  hastily 
formed,  she  had  conceived  any  plan  for  her  future  pro- 
ceedings. To  fly  to  a  distance  so  remote  as  to  screen 
her  from  present  research  or  inquiry  was  the  first  im- 
pulse of  her  feelings,  and  she  had  left  her  native  village 
eight  or  nine  miles  behind  before  she  dared  to  sit  down 
to  rest  and  reflect.  Bred  up  in  the  peace,  comfort,  se- 
curity, and  kindness  of  such  a  household  as  that  in 
which  during  the  whole  of  her  short  inexperienced  life 
she  had  been  a  favorite  and  cherished  inmate,  what 
must  have  been  the  feeling  of  a  girl  not  quite  sixteen  at 
such  a  juncture,  and  under  such  circumstances,  in  quit- 
ting at  once  all  she  had  loved,  known,  and  trusted,  to 
enter  upon  a  world  to  which  she  was  a  stranger,  the  ru- 
mor of  which  had  probably  reached  her  peaceful  retire- 
ment in  all  that  coloring,  at  once  so  inviting  and  fear- 
ful to  the  youthful  and  ardent  mind,  but  to  one  in  her 
situation,  so  young  and  so  unfriended,  truly  appalling. 
"  Without  one  friend  !  "  thought  poor  Anne  as  she  sat 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree  which  spread  its  grateful  shade  over 
the  weeping  and  exhausted  girl  —  "  Not  one  friend  !" 
The  distressing  reflection  brought  at  length  to  her  mem- 
ory a  young  girl  who  had  left  their  neighborhood  about 
a  year  before,  and  was  now  residing  with  an  uncle  in 
London.  She  was  an  orphan,  and  had  been  Anne's 
school-mate  and  favorite  companion  ;  and  she  wiped 
away  her  tears,  as  her  heart  was  eased  of  more  than  half 
its  load  of  anxiety  and  fear,  in  the  thought  tliat  her  once 


IGO  POOR    WILL    NEWBF.RV. 

favorite  playmate  might  befriend  her  in  her  sad  exigency, 
and  assist  her  views.  The  difficulties  and  dangers  of  a 
journey  to  London,  even  at  that  time,  were  very  secon- 
dary, in  the  apprehensions  of  one  whose  first  resolve  h?A 
been  so  decided  and  desperate.  It  is  probable  that  tlie 
distance  of  London,  the  total  absence  of  all  communi- 
cation with  the  retired  little  spot  in  which  she  lived,  and, 
(at  the  remote  period  of  a  century  ago)  the  conviction 
in  Anne's  mind  that  her  friends  would  as  soon  think  of 
seeking  her  in  a  foreign  country  as  there,  might  have 
been  another  inducement  to  her  finally  determining  on 
such  a  plan. 

Persevering  in  her  resolution  thus  formed,  without 
any  other  refreshment  than  a  draught  of  water  from  the 
way-side  stream,  she  had,  before  the  close  of  the  day, 
proceeded  to  a  distance  of  more  than  twenty  miles :  — 
and  this  she  had  done  without  making  one  inquiry,  and 
carefully  avoiding  all  recognition.  She  was  now  on  the 
old  London  road,  and  although  exceedingly  fatigued, 
she  continued  to  walk  slowly  on,  doubtful  whether  she 
should  rest  for  the  night  in  the  first  respectable  dwelling 
that  w'ould  afford  her  an  asylum,  or  remain  the  few  hours 
of  a  short  midsummer  nisjht  in  the  buildinop  or  shed  at- 
tached  to  some  farm-house,  where  she  might  be  equally 
secure  from  observation  or  interruption ;  and  her  ac- 
quaintance with  that  sort  of  building,  was,  she  knew, 
sufl[icient  to  render  her  choice  very  tolerably  secure. 
Still,  though  faint  and  exhausted  from  want  of  food,  she 
continued  to  walk  irresolutely  on,  until,  sitting  down  on 
a  bank  by  the  way-side  to  settle  her  bewildered  mind, 
she  was  roused  from  her  reflections  by  the  appearance  of 
a  party  '^f  persons  ou    horsebnrk   coming  towards  lier. 


POOR    WILL    NEWBERY.  IGl 

Rising  as  they  approached,  though  not  without  difficul- 
ty, being  more  exhausted  than  she  had  imagined  herself, 
she  walked  on  a  few  paces ;  but  her  air  and  manner  be- 
trayed not  only  extreme  exhaustion,  but  also  trepidation 
and  alarm.  Two  or  three  horsemen  passed  first,  and 
then  some  ladies  riding  on  pillions  behind  their  servants. 
The  appearance  of  such  a  young  woman  alone,  at  such 
an  hour  and  in  such  a  situation,  attracted  their  attention, 
and  the  elder  of  the  ladies,  giving  her  the  usual  saluta- 
tion of  the  hour,  perceiving  that  she  faltered  in  her  re- 
ply, ordered  her  servant  to  slacken  his  pace ;  and  upon 
a  nearer  observation  of  her  ingenuous  countenance,  she 
inquired  in  a  tone  of  great  kindness,  "  May  I  ask  whith- 
er you  are  journeying  alone,  at  this  hour  on  the  highway, 
fair  mistress?"  The  gentle  and  considerate  manner  in 
which  this  inquiry  was  made,  struck  the  full  heart  of  the 
poor  fugitive,  and  her  painfully  suppressed  feelings  burst 
forth  at  once.  ''  Oh !  pity  me,  —  pity  me,  —  save  me  !" 
she  exclaimed,  with  raised  hands  and  streaming  eyes. 
The  whole  party  now  halted,  and  the  poor  girl,  quite 
overcome,  staggered  a  few  paces,  and  then  sunk  upon 
the  bank  where  she  had  before  been  resting.  Two  or 
three  of  the  party  alighted,  and  amongst  them  the  gen- 
tleman who  was  at  the  head  of  it;  he  was  the  husband 
of  the  lady,  whose  notice  Anne  had  attracted,  and  was 
travelling  to  London  with  his  family  and  domestics.  It 
was  some  time  before  Anne  was  sufficiently  recovered 
to  make  any  other  reply  to  the  questions  that  were  put 
to  her,  than  by  tears,  sobs,  and  inaudible  attempts  at 
speech.  ''  Press  her  not  with  questions,  —  give  her  time 
to  recover  herself,"  said  the  lady  who  had  first  addressed 


162  POOR    "WILL    NEAVBERY. 

her.  In  the  first  ebullition  cf  feeling,  Anne  would  prob- 
ably have  disclosed  her  real  situation ;  but  in  the  short 
interval  thus  obtained  her,  she  had  sufficiently  recovered 
her  presence  of  mind ;  and  collecting  her  scattered 
thoughts,  the  poor  girl  gave  to  the  little  fiction  which 
she  had  that  day  invented,  an  air  of  the  most  perfect 
truth  and  simplicity,  by  the  emotions  of  genuine  grief 
with  which  it  was  delivered.  She  represented  herself  as 
a  destitute  orphan,  who,  by  strange  and  disastrous  cir- 
cumstances, had  been  rendered  dependent  on  one,  who, 
taking  advantage  of  her  helpless  situation,  had  formed 
the  most  cruel  designs  against  her,  until  at  length  she 
had  been  obliged  to  quit  abruptly  and  clandestinely,  and 
all  unprepared  as  she  then  stood  before  them,  the  only 
little  spot  in  the  wide  world  with  which  she  was  acquaint- 
ed, the  place  of  her  birth,  and,  up  to  the  period  of  these 
afflicting  events,  the  home  of  her  affections;  and  as 
Anne  continued,  through  her  short  narrative,  to  pause 
and  to  weep,  the  lady  to  v/hom  she  particularly  address- 
ed herself,  manifesting  the  warmest  interest  in  her  story, 
when  she  had  finished,  in  a  kind  and  most  pitying  tone, 
asked  where  she  was  going,  and  v/hether  she  had  formed 
any  plan  for  her  future  proceedings.  To  these  ques- 
tions Anne  replied  that  her  first  thought  was  only  to  fly 
from  the  danger  w^hich  awaited  her  ;  but  that  she  had, 
after  much  perplexing  reflection,  determined,  if  it  pleased 
Heaven  to  defend  her  from  the  terrors  and  hazards  of 
such  an  undertaking,  to  proceed  on  to  London,  where 
there  now  resided  a  friend  of  hers,  one  who  vras  an  or- 
phan like  herself,  and  with  whom  she  had  grown  up  from 
infancy,  until  about  a  year  before,  when  her  young  friend 


l«00il    WILL    NEWBERY.  ](J3 

had  been  sent  for  by  a  relative  of  her  deceased  father, 
who,  being  a  man  of  some  account  in  the  city  of  Lon- 
don, would  perhaps  be  induced  to  take  pity  on  her  sad 
circumstances,  and  recommend  her  to  some  situation. 

"  And  who  was  this  young  person,  from  whose  good 
offices  she  expected  such  assistance  ?  "  "  She  was  a  very 
virtuous  respected  young  woman,  one  Mrs.  Betty  Hope." 
Poor  Anne's  countenance  brightened  as  she  pronounced 
the  name  of  the  only  friend  whom  she  now  dared  to 
claim.  *'And  Hope  is  the  name,  of  thy  pretty  mate, 
and  is  now  thy  only  friend,  poor  wanderer  !  "  exclaimed 
the  lady  ;  "  but  cheer  up,  my  child,  T  trust  that  the  pres- 
age is  a  gracious  one  !  "  and  then  turning  and  speaking 
a  {q\w  words  apart  with  her  husband,  the  lady  offered  to 
take  Anne  to  London,  and  she  was  immediately  placed 
on  a  horse,  which  was  led  by  a  servant,  for  the  accommc- 
dation  of  one  of  the  young  ladies,  who  chose  occasion- 
ally to  change  a  pillion  for  a  saddle.  With  the  name  of 
the  family  who  at  once  became  the  protectors  of  our  in- 
teresting relative,  I  never  was  acquainted,  or  I  have  for- 
gotten it  through  a  lapse  of  years  ;  but  "  Betty  Hope  "  was 
a  name  never  to  be  forgotten  in  so  singular  an  adven- 
ture. 

With  this  worthy  and  amiable  family,  Anne  proceeded 
towards  the  great  city  :  but  before  they  reached  the  end 
of  their  journey  the  slow  and  lonely  travellers  met  with 
an  adventure  not  very  uncommon.  They  were  attacked 
and  plundered  by  highwaymen,  but  pity  even  in  such 
breasts  still  prevailed  for  poor  Anne;  for  when  accosted 
in  her  turn,  she  presented  her  purse,  containing  only 
one  solitary  piece  of  gold,  and  declared  with  streaming 


1G4  rOOR    WILL    NEWBERY. 

eyes  it  was  all  she  possessed  in  the  world,  it  was  in- 
stantly returned  to  her. 

Precious  little  piece  of  gold  !  that  preserved  from 
pecuniary  obligation  the  independent  spirit  of  its  sin- 
gular possessor. 

During  her  long,  tedious,  and,  as  it  appears,  some- 
what dangerous  journey,  Anne's  disposition  and  beha- 
vior had  so  far  gained  the  goodwill  of  her  benevolent 
protectress,  that  she  would  willingly  have  granted  her 
an  asylum  in  her  own  house ;  but  while  her  spirit  would 
not  brook  obligation  of  this  nature,  she  had  also,  re- 
flecting on  the  strange  step  she  had  taken,  and  the  per- 
plexity of  her  situation,  resolved  upon  such  a  plan  as 
should  render  her  independent  of  the  protection  of 
those  friends,  whose  favor  might  have  been  forfeited  by 
the  discovery  of  her  real  situation. 

Anne's  education  had  been  extremely  well  attended 
to ;  and  simple  as  it  would  now  be  considered,  she  was 
so  perfect  a  mistress  of  all  that  young  females  were  then 
generally  taught,  that  her  friends  were  brought  to  ap- 
prove of  her  scheme  of  opening  a  school,  which,  with 
their  assistance  and  recommendation,  offered  a  very  fair 
promise  of  success. 

The  sudden  and  total  change  in  her  situation  pro- 
duced at  once  great  solidity  of  character  and  serious- 
ness of  demeanor ;  and  her  undertaking  was  soon 
crowned  with  success  beyond  her  expectation. 

It  was  not  many  months  before  she  was  fortunate 
enough  to  discover  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Betty  Hops, 
with  whom  she  managed  so  well  to  obtain  a  private  in- 
terview, in  which  she  disclosed  all  that  had  befallen  her. 


POOR,    WILL    NEWBERY.  165 

and  engaged  her  confidence  and  secrecy.  I  have  said 
that  two  years  had  elapsed  before  Anne  communicated 
to  her  friends,  in  an  epistle,  a  brief  account  of  what  I 
have  here  detailed ;  she  pleaded,  in  palliation  of  her 
most  strange  and  apparently  unfeeling  proceeding,  that 
the  engagement  she  had  entered  into  on  that  fatal  morn- 
ing never  appeared  to  her  so  dreadful,  as  when  it  was 
indissolubly  fixed,  involving  her,  as  it  did,  in  circum- 
stances too  fearful  for  her  to  abide,  and  from  which  she 
had  suddenly  determined  to  fly,  at  any  hazard  or  dan- 
ger ;  and  in  concluding,  she  besought,  in  the  humblest 
manner,  the  forgiveness  of  her  parents ;  but  she  held  a 
higher  tone  towards  him,  who  had,  she  declared,  unad- 
visedly pressed  on  a  suit  so  disagreeable  to  her,  and  she 
ended  by  avowing  her  fixed  resolution  never  to  acknowl- 
edge those  ties  which  had  driven  her  from  the  home 
where  his  misplaced  addresses  had  found  her  a  cher- 
ished and  happy  child. 

I  have  already  stated  the  manner  in  which  this  letter 
was  received  :  and  when  at  length  it  obtained  an  an- 
swer, she  was  informed,  in  no  softened  terms,  of  the  fa- 
tal issue  of  her  "  rash  and  cruel  proceeding ;  "  their  for- 
giveness they  did  not  withhold,  but  this  forgiveness  was 
coldly  accorded  ;  and  they  added,  that,  as  it  had  pleased 
Providence  to  raise  her  up  friends  and  to  open  to  her 
an  honest  way  of  living  after  her  rash  adventure,  they 
advised  her  not  to  return  to  her  former  home,  unless 
she  was  prepared  to  meet  the  displeasure  and  reproof 
of  all  wlio  had  formerly  thought  but  too  well  of  her. 
Thoy  further  added,  that  slie  who  had  once  credited 
those  who  had  bred  her  up,  and  had  withal  been  consid- 


It6  rOOR    WILL   NEWBERY. 

ered  a  comfort  and  a  blessing  to  them,  was  now  become 
to  them  an  occasion  of  shame  and  confusion  of  coun- 
tenance ;  that  even  her  name,  once  so  familiar  and  sweet 
to  hear,  novv'  sounded  harsh  and  stern  in  their  ears,  as 
when  one  speaks  of  a  guilty  and  proscribed  creature; 
and  when,  they  added,  "  we  seek  for  consolation  in  the 
sanctuary  of  the  afliicted  —  when  witli  broken  hearts  we 
kneel  at  the  altar  wliere  you  pronounced  those  sacred 
vows  which  you  so  fearfully  profaned,  we  pass  by  the 
grave  of  that  m.ost  dear  and  worthy  man  whom  you 
have  destroyed." 

Anne  never  appealed  from  this  interdiction ;  she  nev- 
er returned  to  her  native  place,  nor,  as  I  think,  ev^r  be- 
held tlie  faces  of  her  parents  again.  Thus,  young  and 
affectionate  as  she  was,  cut  off  by  her  own  act  fiom  pa- 
rents and  kindred  and  friends,  in  a  situation  so  stern 
and  so  forlorn,  that  her  heart  had  relented  in  grief  and 
remorse,  and  entertained  kinder  and  tenderer  thoughts 
of  him  whom  she  had  forsaken,  no  one  could  doubt  who 
heard  from  her  tremulous  lips  after  such  a  lapse  of  time, 
and  when  she  was  upwards  of  eighty  years,  that  one 
forlorn,  affecting  expression,  "  Ah  poor  Will  Newbery  !  " 

And  now  perhaps  my  narrative  ought  shortly  to  close; 
but  I  am  f:iin  to  hope  that  those  whom  it  has  interested 
might  like  to  hear  somthing  more  of  the  character  and 
circumstances  cf  the  after  life  of  one  whose  youth  was 
marked  by  so  extraordinary  an  occurrence. 

With  the  detail  of  many  succeeding  years  I  am  to- 
tally unacquainted,  further  than  that  she  continued  to 
pursue  very  successfully  the  occupation  she  had  first 
chosen,  until  the  death  of  her  father.     A  few  vears  af- 


POOR    WILL    NEWEERY.  167 

ter  that  period,  she  left  London  for  the  first  time,  on  an 
excursion  into  the  country  :  she  went  into  Somersetshire 
on  a  visit  to  my  grandmother  —  it  was  a  wedding  tour. 

"  And  could  she,  after  such  an  event,  marry  again? " 
some  fair  reader  may  be  ready  to  exclaim.  Gentle  read- 
er, be  not  hasty  :  Anne  continued  the  widow  of  the 
man  whose  name  she  had  never  borne,  for  a  period  of 
more  than  twenty  years.  She  was  upwards  of  forty 
when  she  married  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Lloyd. 

After  a  short  stay  with  my  grandmother,  she  returned 
to  London,  and  never  afterwards  visited  the  country^  un- 
til she  finally  departed  from  town,  and  cam^e  to  live  with 
my  father  in  her  seventy-ninth  year.  Her  husband  had 
then  been  dead  several  years.  The  occasion  of  this 
removal  was  no  less  disastrous  than  the  loss  of  nearly 
her  whole  property,  which  she  had  consigned  to  a  per- 
son v/ho  had  abused  a  confidence  which  had  been  im- 
plicit and  unlimited.  I  remember,  as  it  were  but  yes- 
terday, the  coming  of  the  letter  by  the  evening  post 
that  acquainted  my  father  with  the  loss  of  the  property 
whicli  he  had  always  expected  would  have  been  be- 
queathed to  his  children ;  but  his  own  disappointment 
on  the  occasion  w^as  soon  absorbed  in  more  generous 
feelings.  I  remember  the  reading  of  that  letter;  there 
was  something  exceedingly  fine  in  its  perfect  simplicity  ; 
it  was  at  once  pathetic,  pious,  and  dignified  ;  it  won  ev- 
ery heart  in  that  innocent  and  artless  circle. 

INIy  dear  mother  was  the  first  to  express  her  wishes 
that  my  fiither  would  immediately  write  and  invite  her 
to  come  and  live  v/ith  us;  my  father  wrote  a  few  lines 
by  the  returning  post,  and  followed  his  letter  the  next 


168  POOR    WILL    NEWBERY. 

(lay ;  and  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week  he  re- 
turned, bringing  with  him,  in  his  aged  relative,  a  stran- 
ger to  his  whole  family ;  but  a  dear  and  welcome  stran- 
ger she  was. 

Previously  to  this  event,  occasional  letters,  short  and 
far  between,  accompained  with  small  presents  to  and 
from  town,  had  been  all  the  communication  that  had 
passed  between  the  aunt  and  nephew  —  an  only  aunt 
and  an  only  nephew  ;  but  oh  !  how  close  did  misfortune 
on  one  hand,  and  benevolence  on  the  other,  draw  this 
neglected  tie  between  these  amiable  relatives. 

My  grandmother,  who,  surviving  her  husband,  had 
resided  with  my  father  from  the  period  of  his  marriage, 
had  died  a  short  time  before;  and  Mrs.  Lloyd  very 
nearly  resembled  her,  and  as  that  dearly  remembered 
countenance  seemed  presented  to  us  again,  the  tears 
with  which  we  embraced  her,  gave  to  our  artless  w^el- 
comes  an  assurance  of  affection  and  feeling  most  sooth- 
ing to  her  situation  and  circumstances. 

How  happy  we  were  with  her,  how  happy  she  was 
with  us,  during  the  remainder  of  her  days,  will  often 
be  a  sweet  reflection  to  the  end  of  mine.  From  the 
first  day  in  which  she  became  an  inmate  in  our  house, 
her  confidence  in  the  affection,  esteem,  and  kindness  of 
my  father  and  mother  was  entire  ;  but  it  is  probable  her 
sweetest  sympathies  were  with  their  children  ;  we  were 
the  constant  companions  of  her  "  in-door  comfort  and 
out-of-door  gladness;  "  most  interesting  was  it  to  behold 
one  who  had  been  the  child  of  nature,  returning  into 
her  bosom  after  a  separation  of  more  than  sixty  years. 
Every  dormant   feeling  was   awakened,  and  every  wel 


POOR    WILL    NZWBERY.  1G9 

remembered  pleasure  enhanced  by  previous  privation  ; 
and  she  met  her  favorite  flowers  again  —  the  humble 
flowers,  which  in  her  youth  were  reckoned  rarest  and 
sweetest — with  tears  of  delight,  the  pink,  the  stock, 
the  polyanthus,  the  wall-flower,  and  the  homely  rose- 
mary; we  made  cur  little  beds  of  them,  and  cherished 
them  m.ore  than  ever  for  her  sake  ;  we  caught  even 
what  might  be  called  her  prejudices,  and  gave  no  place 
to  their  newly  imported  rivals,  "  Vvho  cam.e,"  she  said, 
*'  to  flaunt  in  gaudy  colors  over  their  modest  heads." 
Nor  did  the  garden,  or  orchard,  or  pretty  home-field 
bound  her  walks ;  she  was  a  rambler  and  wanderer 
amongst  us,  by  stream  and  hedge-row,  through  the  tan- 
gled copse,  and  over  the  open  heath,  and  abroad  in  our 
meadows,  when  rich  in  the  perfume  and  beauty  of  the 
sweet  cov.-slip. 

Days,  vreeks,  and  seasons  passed  on,  and  when  I  look 
back  upon  them  I  often  wonder  how  they  could  seem  so 
long,  when  they  were  so  happy  —  were  they  as  long  and 
liappy  to  her  ?  I  think  they  were  ;  for  she  seemed  a 
child  amongst  children  —  a  girl  amongst  girls.  With 
the  wisdom  and  experience  of  age  was  blended  the 
simplicity  of  youth  ;  and  the  ties  of  blood,  from  which 
she  had  been  so  long  estranged,  gave  a  new  tone  to  her 
feelings,  a  fresh  charm  to  her  existence.  Almost  entire- 
ly in  her  company,  v/hile  we  thus  continued  to  enliven 
many  of  her  hours,  we  acquired  habits  of  silence  and 
reflection  in  tiiose  intervals  of  quietude  that  were  nec- 
essary to  age  like  hers  ;  yet  it  was  a  fine  old  age,  with- 
out sickness  or  infirmity,  during  the  first  years  vS  her 
residence  with  us.     TTcr   memory  v.'as  the   faculty  ihr.t 

N 


170  POOR    WILL    NEWBERY. 

was  first  impaired  ;  and  it  gradually  decayed,  until  by  a 
singular  lapse,  she  entirely  lost  the  whole  of  the  period 
which  she  had  spent  in  London.  She  forgot  her  second 
marriage,  the  man  with  whom  she  had  united  herself, 
and  with  whom  she  had  lived,  contentedly  at  least,  for 
several  years.  All  the  various  incidents  that  had  oc- 
curred to  her,  and  the  acquaintances  she  had  formed 
during  her  long  sojourn,  had  passed  from  her  mind  like 
a  forgotten  dream  ;  but  the  occurrences  of  her  youth 
seemed  fresher  then  ever  to  her  imagination  ;  and  how- 
ever confused  and  perplexed  was  the  recollection,  she 
never  forgot  the  strange  and  impressive  events  that  mark- 
ed that  remote  period  of  her  life ;  and  the  last  faltering 
tones  that  gave  utterance  to  the  name  of  him  whose 
heart  her  indifference  had  broken,  were  full  of  tender- 
ness, pity,  and  regret.  As  her  imagination  continued 
as  lively  as  ever,  her  lapses  of  memory  were  sometimes 
extremely  amusing  to  our  thoughtless  age  ;  she  had  been 
a  great  reader  from  her  youth  upwards  ;  books  of  ro- 
mance and  devotion  had  been  the  amusement  of  her 
youth  and  the  consolation  of  her  advanced  age  ;  and 
with  the  history  of  her  own  country,  at  least,  she  was 
tolerably  acquainted. 

As  her  sight  began  to  fail,  and  at  length,  when  after 
shorter  and  shorter  attempts,  her  spectacles  were  laid 
down  by  her  largest  printed  books  with  a  sigh,  she  be- 
gan to  relate  to  us  stories  which  she  had  read  in  her 
youth,  with  a  pretty  modest  introduction. — "Some," 
she  said,  "  simply  for  our  amusement,"  others,  she  hop- 
ed, "  might  tend  to  strengthen  and  improve  cur  memo- 
ry ;    and    otliers,"   she   observed   more    seriously  "  she 


POOR    WILL    NEAVEERY.  171 

would  relate  for  our  edification."  She  would  draw 
from  the  sacred  writers,  from  the  books  of  martyrs,  and 
from  works  of  many  of  the  most  approved  theological 
writers,  the  most  aftecting  examples  of  faith  and  piety, 
with  great  precision  and  propriety  of  adaptation  ;  but 
her  memory  continually  betraying  her  on  those  subjects, 
she  would  transfer  some  of  the  most  affecting  of  the 
scripture  narratives  to  story-books  which  she  had  read 
in  her  youth.  "  I  remember  such  a  one,  my  dears,  and 
truly  a  pretty  story  it  was.  There  was  a  lady  —  dear 
me  !  I  forget  her  name,  and  the  place  w^here  the  au- 
thor had  laid  his  scene  ;  yet  it  was  a  wonderfully  in- 
genious tale  :  well,  I  think  I  have  it  now  —  the  lady's 
name  at  least :  she  was  a  woman  of  high  station,  a 
great  woman  in  her  day,  and  exceedingly  pious  withal 
—  my  Lady  Shunem  —  I  think  that  was  her  title"  :  — 
thus  would  she  proceed,  and  was  certainly  eminently 
diverting  in  her  details.  At  another  time  she  would 
commence —  "  There  lived,  a  great  many  years  ago  (I 
think  it  might  have  been  somewhere  in  Devonshire),  a 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Jacob.  Now  Mr.  Jacob  was 
a  family  man,"  and  then  she  went  on  with  the  history 
of  the  Patriarch  and  his  sons.  She  frequently  modern- 
ized these  narratives  in  such  a  way  as  one  would  have 
thought  must  have  cost  great  pains  and  contrivance ; 
and  these  undesigned  alterations  displayed  a  turn  and 
talent  which,  had  it  happened  to  have  been  called  into 
action,  would  have  made  her  a  pretty  romance  writer  of 
any  period.  The  Scripture  chronicles  she  blended  with 
ihc  history  of  her  own  country  —  dear  woman  !  but  she 
could  not  see  the  smiles  so  round  when  she  admonished 


172  POOR    WILL    NEWBERY. 

US  of  the  necessity  of  treasuring  up  in  our  memory  some 
of  the  most  whimsical  mistakes.  To  the  crimes  of 
Mary  were  frequently  added  all  the  atrocities  of  Jeze- 
bel ;  and  the  next  day,  perhaps,  she  made  Jezebel  a  re- 
turn in  full  of  all  JMary's  crimes  ;  and  then  concluded 
all  with  remarking  gravely,  that  all  young  women  ought 
to  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  history  of  their 
own  country.  And  then  she  sung  too,  and  how  svv'cetly 
did  her  voice  blend  with  ours  in  our  evening  hymn, 
when  gathered  round  our  large  hall  fire  ;  and  sometimes, 
if  we  asked,  though  she  certainly  required  a  little  press- 
ing, she  would  sing  alone,  and  often  did  she  commence 
with  "  Lady  Anne  Bothwell's  Lament,"  and  after  a  few 
melancholy  notes,  gliding  into  the  doleful  ditty  of"  Cru- 
el Barbara  Allen,"  on  a  sudden  raise  her  voice  to  its 
highest  pitch  in  the  lively  air  of  "  Kilkenny  was  a  Fine 
Town,"  and  then  v/ith  breath  a  little  exhausted  by  the 
quickness  of  the  measure,  sink,  in  sv/eetly  querulous 
tones,  into  the  sacred  dirge,  the  pathetic  and  solemn 
eighty-eighth  Psalm. 

I  have  never  seen  so  fine,  so  happy,  so  engaging  an 
old  age  as  hers;  her  bright  figure  —  her  firm  step  — 
her  cheerful  countenance  —  the  bland  and  chastened  ex- 
pression of  her  fine  dark  eyes  —  her  measured  move- 
ments, stately  without  the  smallest  approach  to  formali- 
ty, formed  altogether  a  person  and  address  that  ex- 
ceedingly became  her  rich  and  old-fashioned  attire,  her 
brocades,  her  laces,  her  strait  waist  and  stomacher,  her 
high  cap  with  its  lappets  and  ribbons  intermixed.  What 
a  picture  !  when  the  Sabbath  morning  especially  brought 
her   down   for  the   day.      IIov/   we   gathered    together 


POOR    WILL    NEWBERY.  173 

rounti  her,  and  praised  her  appearance  and  her  looks  ; 
and  how  slie  smiled  upon  us,  and  blessed  us  !  her  smiles 
and  her  looks  are  before  me  still,  and  her  tones  are  in 
my  ear. 

1  think  she  had  nearly  reached  her  eighty-sixth  year 
before  her  sight  became  materially  impaired  ;  and  when 
in  the  course  of  a  few  years  she  totally  lost  it,  she  did 
not  appear  to  be  sensible  of  the  change  ;  at  least  during 
the  two  remaining  years  of  her  life,  no  one  of  the  fami- 
ly ever  heard  her  advert  to  the  loss.  When  she  first 
perceived  the  decay  in  her  vision,  she  had  occasionally 
evinced  great  distress  of  mind  in  her  apprehensions  of 
her  approaching  blindness ;  and  we  had  dreaded  the  ef- 
fect as  a  fatal  shock  to  her  cheerfulness.  But  it  was 
over,  and  she  seemed  not  to  be  aware  of  her  misfortune. 
The  little  circle  around  her  had  been  anxiously  watch- 
ing and  assiduously  attending  her  steps  and  her  motions  ; 
and  as  the  dimness  gathered  darker  and  darker,  every 
hand  was  ready  to  guide  her,  and  to  set  every  thing 
right  about  her,  in  such  a  manner  that  she  might  not 
discover  their  aid  to  be  necessary.  I  remember  one 
evening,  my  father  wishing  to  ascertain  if  her  sight 
were  entirely  gone,  waved  a  candle  two  or  three  times 
near  her  eyes  without  its  exciting  her  attention  ;  we 
were  then  perfectly  convinced  of  the  total  extinction  of 
vision.  We  had  all  feared  and  expected  that  it  was  so, 
but  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  circle  that  surround- 
ed her ;  she  smiled,  however,  and  chatted  as  usual, 
and  was,  I  think,  the  most  cheerful  of  the  party  that 
evening. 

When  her  sight  became  extinct,  and  the  remains  of 
memory  were  only  faint  gleams  or  misleading  guides, 


174  rOOR    WILL    NEWBERY. 

her  fancies  and  imaginings  seemed  to  lose  nothing  of 
their  vividness  or  buo3^anc}'  ;  and  over  these  fancies  the 
most  inauspicious  seasons  or  times  had  no  effect.  Even 
our  delightful  Mitford  herself  might  have  borrowed  a 
scene  from  her  description.  Often  has  she  startled  me 
from  a  musing  dream  by  her  side,  where  I  was  general- 
ly stationary  in  that  dear  warm  corner  in  the  cold  drea- 
ry winter  afternoons,  by  declaring  that  our  valley  lay  all 
before  us  in  the  promise  and  brightness  of  spring,  or 
the  beauty  and  richness  of  summer  ;  and  these  fancies 
generally  ended  in  her  expressing  a  wish  for  a  walk,  it 
being,  she  would  say,  a  sin  to  sit  at  home  on  such  a 
morning  :  then,  her  bonnet  and  cloak  being  brought,  we 
set  out  on  our  walk  ;  while  the  different  rooms,  one  af- 
ter the  other,  and  the  long  passage  that  led  down  the 
suite  of  apartments,  and  which  was  indeed  sufficiently 
cool,  afforded  to  her  imagination  pasture  and  lane,  and 
breezy  heath,  wanting  nothing  to  engage  and  refresh 
the  senses  ;  memory  supplied  to  her  the  honej^-suckle 
and  wild-rose,  wherever  she  had  seen  them  grow.  Her 
favorite  flowers  still  bloomed  and  breathed  for  her,  for 
she  often  praised  their  beauty  with  her  accustomed  sen- 
sibility, and  declared  that  every  gale  brought  their  sweet 
perfume.  The  deception  of  her  senses  could  not  have 
been  so  complete,  but  that  she  never  gathered  a  flower. 
A  course  of  observation  convinced  us  that  it  was  one  of 
her  little  ruling  maxims  not  to  cut  short  their  transient 
lives;  and,  noting  this  pretty  tenderness  —  is  this,  I 
have  often  thought,  she  who  broke  the  heart  of  "  poor 
Will  Newbery  ?  " 

I  could,  through  the  course  of  many  pages,  dwell  up- 


POOR    WILL    NEWBERY.  175 

on  the  simple  and  affecting  incidents  that  crowd  upon 
my  mind  ;  but  I  will  venture  only  one,  which  formed 
almost  the  closing  scene  in  the  simple  but  romantic  dra- 
ma of  the  life  which  I  have  sketched,  and  would  not  wil- 
lingly leave  till  its  close. 

A  serious  and  affecting  charge  devolved  on  her  youth- 
ful relatives,  when  at  length,  her  boddy  strength  and  all 
the  remaining  faculties  of  her  mind  daily  and  rapidly 
declining,  she  was  entirely  confined,  first  to  her  cham- 
ber, then  to  her  bed.  For  several  weeks  she  had  been 
lying  in  a  state  of  extreme  helplessness,  but  apparently 
v/ithout  suffering,  for  she  generally  slumbered  through 
the  day,  and  showed  no  other  signs  of  recognising  those 
about  her  than  by  never  failing  to  thank  them  with  her 
usual  politeness  for  any  attention  she  received  :  this  was 
all  ;  but  the  few  and  tremulous  accents  were  sweet  to 
hear.  We  leaned  over  and  repeated  her  words  to  each 
other,  as  a  fond  mother  repeats  the  half  formed  expres- 
sions of  her  child.  "  And  is  it  so,"  we  exclaimed,  "  and 
is  her  fine  mind  really  reduced  to  that  state  of  infantile 
weakness  !  and  when  v/c  shall  tell  her  tale,  will  it  end 
thus?"  Not  so  —  she  left  a  more  gratifying  memorial 
behind  her. 

I  remember  it  was  a  fine  afternoon  in  the  late  autumn, 
when,  tempted  by  the  favorable  weather,  we  all  went  in- 
to the  orchard  to  assist  in  gathering  the  hoard  apples. 
Our  parents  v/ere  both  from  home,  and  \vc  left  our  chiirgc 
to  the  care  of  a  faithful  domestic  who  was  much  attach- 
ed to  her.  Every  hand  was  busily  engaged  —  we  gatiier- 
cd  our  fruit  —  laughed,  rallied  each  other,  and  boasted 
of  t!ic  finest  npplcs,  as  each  emi)ticd  her  well-filled  little 


76  rOOR   V/ILL    KEWBERY. 

basket  into  the  general  stock.  I  feel  at  this  moment 
the  panic  that  struck  my  mined  with  the  reflection  that 
I  had  been  absent  more  than  an  hour  from  the  room 
which  my  mother  requested  me  not  to  leave  many  min- 
utes together.  Vague  and  startling  apprehensions  gave 
wings  to  my  feet,  and  quick  as  thought,  I  was  through 
the  orchard,  down  the  garden,  and  up  the  stairs.  The 
interval  of  a  few  minutes  longer  would  probably  have 
subjected  me  to  a  life-long  remorse.  I  found  our  aged 
relative  in  a  state  which  gave  such  a  pang  to  my  heart, 
as,  I  hope,  sufficiently  atoned  for  my  negligence  ;  she 
had  arisen  and  partly  dressed  herself,  but  had  sunk  in 
a  state  of  insensibility  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  From 
her  shrunken  frame,  cold  and  senseless,  every  spark  of 
life  seemed  to  have  fled  :  there  was  no  time  to  reflect  — 
it  was  necessary  to  act,  and  on  the  instant  I  caught  a 
long  warm  cloak  from  the  peg  where  it  hung,  raised  the 
dear  insensible  object  of  my  terrors,  and  wrapping  it 
round  her,  took  her,  carried  her  in  my  arms  down  stairs, 
and  along  the  passage  and  large  hall  where  we  usually 
sat,  and  placed  her  in  her  own  easy-chair  by  the  hearth; 
and  drawing  a  table  that  was  near,  I  set  it  before  her  to 
prevent  her  falling  :  I  then  ran  to  an  outhouse,  got  a 
faggot  of  light  dry  wood,  which  I  placed  on  a  few  em- 
bers still  slumbering  under  the  ashes ;  and  when  the 
flame  burst  brightly  up  the  chimney-back,  I  had  a  cor- 
dial in  a  little  sauce-pan  ready  to  warm.  JMy  eyes  were 
contmually  turned  on  the  object  of  my  solicitude  ;  soon 
I  saw  the  grateful  warmth  bring  a  faint  color  to  her 
countenance,  and  relax  her  cold  and  i^tiflcncd  lindis  ;  and 
when,  presenting  the  glass  to  her  lips,  she  drank  a  little 


POOR    WILL    NEWBERY.  1// 

of  tlie  cordial,  not  only  without  difTiculty,  but  with  ap- 
p:irent  satisfaction,  it  seemed  to  me  the  first  time,  dur- 
incr  this  short  but  tryinfr  scene,  that  I  dared  to  breathe. 
But  I  could  not  speak.  I  kneeled  down  before  her  and 
pressed  her  hand  in  mine,  while  tears  of  grief  and  joy 
fell  upon  them.  She  soon  addressed  me  by  my  name, 
which  she  repeated,  observing,  "  For  I  know  that  it  is 
Mary,"  and  her  utterance  was  clearer,  and  her  voice 
stronger  than  I  had  known  it  for  several  moLths  past. 

The  words  of  one  risen  from  the  dead  could  scarcely 
have  impressed  me  more  than  her  subsequent  discourse, 
from  which  I  discovered  that  she  had  been  perfectly 
conscious  of  what  had  passed,  from  the  moment  I  had 
found  her  in  a  state  of  seeming  insensibility. 

"I  had  come,"  she  said,  ''to  revive  the  trembling 
flame  of  life,  to  give  one  more  proof  of  my  affection, 
and  to  receive  her  last  thanks  and  last  blessing."  She 
adverted  to  my  tender  age  (I  was  then  about  seventeen), 
and  to  the  delicacy  of  my  frame,  and  she  blessed  Him 
who  had,  she  observed,  so  strengthened  me,  that  my 
steps  tottered  not  under  a  burden  so  strange,  and  in 
circumstances  so  trying.  She  proceeded  in  an  affect- 
i.ig  strain  of  devotion,  pouring  out  her  heart  to  that  God 
whose  forgiveness,  mercy,  and  love  had  extended  over 
all  the  days  of  her  life  :  who  had  brought  her  in  age 
and  destitution  to  those  dear  and  beloved  relatives,  for 
whom  she  now  besought  grace  and  favor,  and  more  es- 
j)ccially  every  spiritual  good.  She  named  each  indi- 
vidually, beginning  with  her  "  dear  nephew"  (my  fa- 
llier),  and  in  tliis  most  aflecting  and  solemn  appeal  she 
discovered  a  perfect  and  \'wfA\  sense  of  the  distinguish- 


1/b  rOOR    ^VILL    NF.WCERY. 

ing  characteristics  of  these  objects  of  her  solicitude  and 
tenderness.  Finally,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  my  head, 
and  blessed  her  "beloved  Mary,"  for  whom,  she  said, 
she  besought  not,  with  submission  to  the  Divine  will, 
that  her  life  should  be  prolonged  to  days  so  helpless  as 
hers ;  but  if  so  protracted  and  so  enfeebled,  that  it 
might  also  be  as  tenderly  ministered  unto,  and  so  close 
in  the  bosom  of  kindred  kindness  and  peace. 

She  hud  but  just  concluded  this  farewell  benediction 
when  others  of  the  family  came  in  ;  my  father  and 
mother  also  returned  home  ;  she  spoke  cheerfully  to  all ; 
tea  was  prepared,  and  we  were  delighted  at  having  her 
partake  of  it  with  us  again.  But  in  the  midst  of  cur 
simple  social  meal,  she  sunk  into  her  accustomed  slum- 
ber, and  my  father  conveyed  her  in  his  arms  to  her  bed, 
from  which  she  never  rose  again.  A  few  days  after, 
sitting  by  her  bed-side  and  perceiving  her  dissolution 
was  near  at  hand,  my  father  addressed  to  her  a  i^ew 
words,  to  Vvhich  she  endeavored  to  reply  ;  but  in  a  voice 
scarcely  audible,  and  with  some  difficulty,  she  could 
only  articulate  "  my  dear  nephew."  It  was,  hovrever,  a 
most  dear  and  welcome  recognition  ;  and  in  the  extreme 
yearning  of  the  heart,  at  this  painful  moment,  my  father 
put  a  few  questions  of  solemn  import  and  affectionate 
solicitude,  entreating  her  to  press  his  hand,  in  token 
that,  in  this  awful  extremity,  her  God  was  with  her. 
Tv/ice  she  repeated  the  desired  and  affecting  token,  and 
then  the  spirit  relumed  to  Gcd  uho  gave  it. 

On  the  morning  of  her  interment,  before  the  funerr.l 
attendants  had  arrived,  we  stood  once  more  rcvmd  the 
close  ccflin  that  contained  tlic  remains  of  cur  venerable 


rOOR    AVIiL    NEWBEllY.  ]79 

and  beloved  friend,  and  shed  showers  of  tears  over  the 
mournfull  shell,  which,  from  the  approximation  to  the 
dead,  is  more  afflicting  to  the  mourner,  than  even  the 
grave  which  hides  poor  mortality  in  the  bosom  of  its 
mother  earth,  covered  with  her  softest  robe  besprinkled 
with  the  little  flowers  which  she  loves  best.  I  have  bent 
over  the  simple  memorial  of  ninety-two  years  in  the  af- 
fecting trust  that  in  that  world  where  there  is  neither 
marrying  nor  giving  in  marriage,  the  fine  and  delicate 
spirit  was  reunited  to  him  who  had  loved,  "  not  wisely, 
but  too  well"  —  to  the  ill-fated  in  this  world  —  to  him 
whom  a  broken  heart  had  laid  in  an  early  grave  —  to 
"  poor  Will  Newbery  !  " 

m 


180 


LINES  TO  ELEANOR. 

Can  I  e'er  cease  to  love  thee  — 

Forget  thee  ?     Ah  !  no ; 
Though  nations  divide  us, 

And  seas  'twixt  us  flow  ; 
Thy  beauty  is  graven 

So  deep  in  my  heart, 
I  fancy  thee  near  me. 

Wherever  thou  art. 
All  nature  seems  fairer 
^     Whene'er  thou  art  nigh  ; 
The  sun  shines  more  brightly, 

More  blue  is  the  sky  ; 
When  absent,  thy  form 

In  each  object  I  see, 
And  every  thing  round  me 

Reminds  me  of  thee  ! 


;.:  ••:. 


l&l 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  OJX  HER  MAB|IIAGE. 


They  tell  me,  gentle  lady,  that  they  deck  thee  for  a  bride, 
That  the  wreath  is  woven  for  thy  hair,  the  bridegroom  by  thy 

side  ; 
And  I  think  I  hear  thy  father's  sigh,  thy  mother's  calmer  tone, 
As  they  give  thee  to  another's  arms — their  beautiful — their 

o  w  n . 

I  never  saw  a  bridal  but  my  eyelid  hath  been  wet, 

And  it  always  seem'd  to  me  as  though  a  joyous  crowd  were  met 

To  see  the  saddest  sight  of  all,  a  gay  and  girlish  thing 

Lay  aside  her  maiden  gladness  —  for  a  name  —  and  for  a  ring. 

And  other  cares  will  claim  tliy  thoughts,  and  other  hearts  thy 

love. 
And  gayer  friends  may  be  around,  and  bluer  skies  above ; 
Yet  thou,  when  I  behold  thee  next,  may'st  wear  upon  thy  brow. 
Perchance,  a  mother's  look  of  care,  for  tliat  which  decks  it  nov/. 

And  when  I  think  how  often  I  have  seen  thee,  with  thy  mild 
And  lovely  look,  and  step  of  air,  and  bearing  like  a  child. 
Oh!  how  mournfully,  how  mournfully,  the  thought  comes  o'er 

my  brain, 
Wlien  I  think  thou  ne'er  may'st  be  that  free  and  girlish  thing 

again. 

I  would  that  as  my  heart  dictates,  just  such  might  be  my  l:iy, 
And  my  voice   should  be  a  voice  of  mirth,  a  music   like   the 

May ; 
But  it  may  not  be  !   within  my  breast  all  frozen  are  the  springs, 
Tlie  mnnnur  dies  upon  tlie  lip  —  the  music  on  the  string.-^. 


182  TO    A    lOU-VG    LADY    ON    HER    MARRIAGE. 

But  a  voice  is  floating  round  me,  and  it  tells  me  in  my  rest, 
That  sunshine  shall  illume  thy  path,  that  joy  shall  be  thy  guest, 
That  thy  life  shall  be  a  summer's  da}'^,  whose  evening  shall  go 

down, 
Like   the  evening  in  the  eastern  clime,  that  never  knows  a 

frown. 

When  thy  foot  is  at  the  altar,  when  the  ring  hath  press'd  thy 

hand. 
When  those  thou  lov'st,  and  those  that  love  thee,  w^eeping 

round  thee  stand, 
Oh  !  may  the  verse  that  friendship  weaves,  like  a  spirit  of  the 

air. 
Be  o'er  thee  at  that  moment  —  for  a  blessing  and  a  prayer  ! 


183 


A  HOME  IN  THE  HEART. 

Oh,  ask  not  a  home  in  the  mansions  of  pride, 

Where  marble  shines  out  in  the  pillars  and  walls  ; 
Though  the  roof  be  of  gold  it  is  brilliantly  cold, 

And  joy  may  not  be  found  in  its  torch-lighted  halls. 
But  seek  for  a  bosom  all  honest  and  true, 

Where  love  once  awakened  will  never  depart ; 
Turn,  turn  to  that  breast  like  the  dove  to  its  nest, 

And  you  '11  find  there  's  no  home  like  a  home  in  the  heart. 


Oh,  link  but  one  spirit  that 's  warmly  sincere. 

That  will  heighten  your  pleasure  and  solace  your  care 
Find  a  soul  you  may  trust  as  the  kind  and  the  just. 

And  be  sure  the  wide  world  holds  no  treasure  so  rare.  . 
Then  the  frov;ns  of  misfoi'tune  may  shadow  our  lot, 

The  cheek-searing  tear-drops  of  sorrow  may  start, 
But  a  star  never  dim  sheds  a  halo  for  him 

Who  can  turn  for  repose  to  a  home  in  the  heart. 


184 


SAY,  OH,  SAY,  YOU  LOVE  ME. 


By  the  gloom  that  shades  my  heart, 
When,  fair  girl,  from  thee  I  part : 
By  the  deep  impassioned  sigh. 
Half  suppressed  when  thou  art  nigh  ; 
By  the  heaving  of  my  breast. 
When  thy  hand  by  mine  is  pressed  ;. 
By  these  fervent  signs  betrayed, 
Canst  thou  doubt  my  truth,  sweet  maid  ? 
Then  sa.j^  oh  !  say,  you  love  me  I 

By  the  joy  that  thrills  my  frame. 
To  hear  another  praise  thy  name  ; 
By  my  mingled  dread  the  while, 
Lest  that  one  should  woo  thy  smile  ; 
By  the  flush  that  dyes  my  cheek, 
Telling  what  I  ne'er  could  speak  ; 
By  these  fervent  signs  betrayed, 
Canst  thou  doubt  my  truth,  sweet  maid  .' 
Then  say,  oh  I  sa}',  you  love  me  ! 

Heart  and  soul,  more  fond  than  mine, 
Trust  me  never  can  be  thine ; 
Heart  and  soul,  whose  passion  pure, 
Long  as  life  shall  thus  endure. 
Take,  oh  !  take  me,  let  me  live 
On  the  hope  thy  smiles  can  give  ; 
See  me  kneel  before  my  throne  ; 
Take,  oh  !  take  me,  for  thine  own, 

And  say,  oh  !  sav,  you  love  me  ! 


185 


LADY  ALDA'S  DREAM. 


A    SPANISH    BALLAD. 


In  Paris  sits  the  lady  that  shall  be  Sir  Roland's  bride, 

Three  hundred  damsels  with  her,  her  bidding  to  abide  ; 

All  clothed  in  the  same  fashion,  both  the  mantle  and  the  shcon, 

All  eating  at  one  table,  within  her  hall  at  noon  : 

All,  save  the  Lady  Alda,  she  is  lady  of  them  all, 

She  keeps  her  place  upon  the  dais,  and  they  serve  her  in  her 

hall ; 
The  thread  of  gold  a  hundred  spin,  the  lawn  a  hundred  weave, 
And  a  hundred  play  sweet  melody  within  Alda's  bower  at  eve. 

With  the  sound  of  their  su^eet  playing,  the  lady  falla  asleep. 
And  she   dreams  a  doleful  dream,  and  her  damsels  hear  her 

weep ; 
There  is  sorrow  in  her  slumber,  and  she  waketh  with  a  cry, 
And  she  calleth  for  her  damsels,  and  swiftly  they  come  nigh. 
'  Now,  what  is  it.  Lady  Alda '  —  (yo^  i^ay  hear  the  words  they 

say)  — 
'  Bringeth  sorrow  to  thy  pillow,  and  chaseth  sleep  away  ;  ' 
'  Oh,  my  maidens  !  '  quoth  the  lady,  '  my  heart  it  is  full  sore  ! 
I  have  dreamt  a  dream  of  evil,  and  can  slumber  never  more  ! 

'  For  I  was  upon  a  mountain,  in  a  bare  and  desert  place. 
And  I  saw  a  mighty  eagle,  and  a  falcon  he  did  chase  ; 
And  to  me  the  falcon  came,  and  I  hid  it  in  my  breast; 
But  the  mighty  bird,  pursuing,  came  and  rent  away  my  vest ; 


186 


J.ADY    ALDA  S    DKEA.M. 


And  he  scattered  all  the  feathers,  and  blood  was  on  his  beak, 
And  ever,  as  he  tore  and  tore,  I  heard  the  falcon  shriek. 
Now  read  my  vision,  damsels,  —  now  read  my  dream  to  me, 
For  my  heart  may  well  be  heavy  that  doleful  sight  to  see.' 

Out  spake  the  foremost  damsel  was  in  her  chamber  there  — 
(You  may  hear  the  words  she  says)  —  '  Oh  !  my  lady's  dream 

is  fair  : 
The  mountain  is  St.  Denis'  choir,  and  thou  the  falcon  art ; 
And  the  eagle  strong  that  teareth  the  garment  from  thy  heart. 
And  scattereth  the  feathers,  he  is  the  Paladin, 
That,  when  again  he  comes  from  Spain,  must  sleep  thy  bower 

within. 
Then  be  blythe  of  cheer,  my  lady,  for  the  dream  thou  must  not 

grieve. 
It  means  but  that  thy  bridegroom  shall  come  to  thee  at  eve.' 


'  If  thou  hast  read  my  vision,  and  read  it  cunningly,' 

Thus  said  the  lady  Alda,  '  thou  shalt  not  lack  thy  fee.'  — 

But  wo  is  me  for  Alda  !  there  was  heard,  at  morning  hour, 

A  voice  of  lamentation  within  that  lady's  bower  ; 

For  there  had  come  to  Paris  a  messenger  by  night. 

And  his  horse  it  w^as  a- weary,  and  his  visage  it  was  white  ; 

And  there  's  weeping  in  the  chamber,  and  there  's  silence  in 

the  hall, 
For  Sir  Roland  has  been  slaughtered  in  the  chase  of  Roncesval. 


18; 


A  STORM. 

There  was  a  tempest  brooding  in  the  air, 

Far  in  the  west.     Above,  the  skies  were  fair, 

And  the  sun  seem'd  to  go  in  glory  down  — 

One  small  black  cloud  (one  only),  like  a  crown 

Touched  his  descending  disk,  and  rested  there  : 

Slow  then  it  came  along,  to  the  great  wind 

Rebellious,  and,  although  it  blew  and  blew, 

Came  on  increasing,  and  across  the  blue 

Spread  its  dark  shape,  and  left  the  sun  behind. 

The  dajdight  sank,  and  the  winds  wail'd  about 

The  barque  wherein  th.e  luckless  couple  lay, 

And  from  the  distant  cloud  came  scattering  out 

Rivers  of  fire  :  it  seem'd  as  though  the  day 

Had  burst  from  out  the  billov.^s  far  aw^ay. 

No  pilot  had  thoj^  their  small  boat  to  steer 

Aside  from  rocks  ;  no  sea-v/orn  mariner. 

Who  knew  each  creek  and  bay  and  shelt'ring  steep, 

And  all  the  dangers  of  the  turbulent  deep. 

They  fled  for  life  (for  happiness  is  life), — 

And  met  tlie  tempest  in  his  hour  of  strife 

Abroad  upon  the  v.-atcrs  :  they  were  driven 

Against  them  by  the  angry  w'inds  of  Heaven  ; 

Or  thus  it  seem'd  :  the  clouds,  the  air,  the  sea, 

Rose  from  unnatural  dead  tranquillitj''. 

And  came  to  battle  with  their  legions  :  hail 

Shot  shattering  down,  and  thunders  roar'd  aloud. 

And  the  wild  lightning  from  his  dripping  shroud 

Unbound  his  arrowy  pinions  blue  and  pale. 

And  darted  through  the  Heavens.     Below,  the  gale 

Sang  like  a  dirge,  and  the  white  billows  lash'd 

Tlie  boat,  and  then  like  ravenous  lions  dash'd 


188 


A    STORM. 


Against  the  deep  wave-hidden  rocks,  and  told 
Of  ghastlj'  perils  as  they  backward  roll'd. 

The  lovers,  driven  along  from  hour  to  hour, 
Were  helpless,  hopeless,  —  in  the  ocean's  power. 
The  storm  continued ;  and  no  voice  was  heard, 
Save  that  of  some  poor  solitary  bird, 
That  sought  a  shelter  on  the  quivering  mast ; 
But  soon,  borne  off  by  the  tremendous  blast, 
Sank  in  the  waters,  screaming.     The  great  sea 
Bared,  like  a  grave,  its  bosom  silently, 
Then  fell  and  panted  like  an  angry  thing 
With  its  own  strength  at  vrar  ;  the  vessel  flew 
Toward  the  land,  and  then  the  billows  grew 
Larger  and  v.'hite,  and  roared  as  triumphing, 
Scattering  afar  and  wide  the  heavy  spray, 
That  shone  like  bright  saov/  as  it  pass'd  away. 
At  first,  tlio  dolphin  and  the  porpoise  dark 
Came  rolling  by  them,  and  the  hungry  shark 
Follow'd  the  boat,  patient  and  eager  eyed. 
And  the  grey  curlew  slanting  dipp'd  her  side, 
And  the  hoarse  gull  his  wings  vv^thin  the  foam  ; 
But  some  had  sunk  —  the  rest  had  harried  ho2ue. 
And  nov.'  pale  Julia  and  her  hi:sband  (clasp'd 
Each  in  the  other's  arms)  sate  viewing  death  ; 
She,  for  his  sake  in  fear,  silently  gasp'd. 
And  he  to  cheer  her  kept  his  steady  breath, 
Talking  of  hope,  and  smiled  like  morning.     There 
They  sate  together  in  their  sv.'cet  despair  : 
Sometimes  upon  his  breast  she  laid  her  head, 
And  he  upon  her  silent  beauty  fed. 
Hushing  her  fears,  and  'tween  her  and  the  storm 
Drew  his  embroider'd  cloak  to  keep  her  warm  ; 
She  thank'd  him  with  a  lock  upturn'd  to  hi.'^, 
Tlie  which  he  answer'd  by  a  tender  kit:s, 
Press'd  and  prolong'd  to  pain  !  her  lip  was  cold, 
And  all  her  love  and  terror  muiely  t^ld. 
—  The  vessel  Ftruok. 


J89 


RETRIBUTION. 


THE    MEASCRE    METED    OUT    TO    OTHERS,    MEASURED    TO    US    AGAIN.' 


CHAPTI^R    t. 

Miss  L\ndon  closes  one  of  her  sportive  poems  with 
the  heartfelt  exclamation  — 

"  Thank  Heaven  that  I  never 
Can  be  a  child  again." 

The  remark  falls  harshly  from  a  woman's  lip  ;  and 
after  all  does  not  admit  of  general  application.  There 
are  those  who  were  never  children  —  with  whom  the 
heart  was  never  young.  There  are  those  who  never 
knew  that  brief  but  happy  period  when  the  spirit  was  a 
stranger  to  guile,  —  and  the  heart  beat  high  with  gen- 
erous impulses, —  and  the  future  was  steeped  in  the 
colors  of  hope,  —  and  the  past  left  behind  it  no  sting 
of  bitterness,  —  and  the  brow  was  unwrinkled  with 
care,  —  and  the  soul  unsullied  by  crime,  —  and  the  lips 
poured  forth,  fondly  and  fervently,  with  unbounded  and 
unwavering  conlidencc,  the  heart's  purest  and  earliest 
homage  to  Nature  and  to  Truth.  And  he  whose  ca- 
reer, on  the  second  anniversary  of  his  death,  I  am  tempt- 
ed to  record,  was  a  living  ilhistraticm  of  the  truth  of 
this  assertion. 

p 


190  RETRIBUTION. 

Vincent  Desborough's  prospects  and  position  in  soci- 
ety embraced  all  that  an  ambitious  heart  would  seek. 
He  was  heir  to  a  large  fortune  —  had  powerful  connec- 
tions —  talents  of  no  common  order  —  and  indisputable 
personal  attractions.  But  every  good,  natural  and  ac- 
quired, was  marred  by  a  fatal  flaw  in  his  disposition. 
It  was  largely  leavened  with  cruelty.  It  seemed  born 
with  him.  For  it  was  developed  in  very  early  childhood, 
and  bade  defiance  to  remonstrance  and  correction.  In- 
sects, dogs,  horses,  servants,  all  felt  its  virulence.  And 
yet  on  a  first  acquaintance,  it  appeared  incredible  that 
that  intelligent  and  animated  countenance,  those  glad- 
some and  beaming  eyes,  could  meditate  aught  but  kind- 
ness and  good  will  to  those  around  him.  But  as  Lord 
Byron  said  of  Ali  Pacha  —  one  of  the  most  cruel  and 
sanguinary  of  Eastern  despots  —  that  he  was  "by  far 
the  mildest  looking  old  gentleman  he  ever  conversed 
with  ;  "  so  it  might  be  said  of  Vincent  Desbcrough,  that 
never  was  a  relentless  and  savage  heart  concealed  un- 
der a  more  winning  and  gentle  exterior. 

That  parents  are  blind  to  the  errors  of  their  offspring 
has  passed  into  a  proverb,  and  Vincent's  were  no  ex- 
ception to  the  rule.  "  He  was  a  boy,"  they  affirmed, 
"of  the  highest  promise."  His  ingenuity  in  causing 
pain  was  "  a  mere  childish  foible  which  would  vanish 
with  advancing  years  ;  "  and  his  delight  at  seeing  others 
suffer  it,  "  an  eccentricity  which  more  extended  ac- 
quaintance with  life  would  teach  him  to  discard.  AU 
boys  were  cruel! ''^  And  satisfied  with  the  wisdom  of 
this  conclusion,  the  Desboroucrhs  intrusted  their  darl- 


RETRIBUTION.  191 

ing  to  Doctor  Scanaway,  with  the  request  that  "  he 
might  be  treated  with  every  possible  indulgence." 

''No,"  said  the  learned  linguist,  loudly  and  sternly, 
"  not  if  he  was  heir-presumptive  to  the  dukedom  of 
Devonshire !  Your  son  you  have  thought  proper  to 
place  with  me.  For  that  preference  I  thank  you.  But 
if  he  remains  with  me  he  must  rough  it  like  the  rest. 
You  have  still  the  power  of  withdrawing  him." 

Papa  and  Mamma  Desborough  looked  at  each  other 
in  evident  consternation,  and  stammered  out  a  disjoint- 
ed disclaimer  of  any  such  intention. 

"Very  well!  —  Coppinger,"  said  he,  calling  one  of 
the  senior  boys,  ''take  this  lad  away  with  you  into  the 
school-room  and  put  a  Livy  into  his  hands.  My  pupils 
I  aim  at  making  men,  not  milksops  —  scholars,  not  sim- 
pletons. To  do  this  I  must  have  your  entire  confidence. 
If  that  be  withheld,  your  son's  luggage  is  still  in  the 
hall,  and  I  beg  that  he  and  it  may  be  again  restored  to 
your  carriage." 

"  By  no  means,"  cried  the  Desboroughs  in  a  breath ; 
and  silenced,  if  not  satisfied,  they  made  their  adieus 
and  departed. 


CHAPTER    II. 

In  Doctor  Scanaway's  household  Vincent  met  with  a 
congenial  spirit  in  the  person  of  a  youth  some  years  his 
senior  named  Gervaise  Rolleston.  Gervaise  was  a  young 
adventurer.  He  was  clever,  active,  and  prepossessing ; 
but  he  was  poor  and  dependent.     lie  discovered  that, 


192  RETRIBUTION. 

at  no  very  distant  period,  accumulated  wealth  must  des- 
cend to  Vincent,  and  he  fancied  that,  by  submitting  to 
his  humors  and  flattering  his  follies,  he  might  secure  to 
himself  a  home  in  rough  weather.  The  other  had  no 
objection  to  possess  a  faithful  follower.  In  truth  a  clev- 
er coadjutor  was  often  indispensable  for  the  successful 
execution  of  his  mischievous  projects.  Mutual  neces- 
sity thus  proved  a  stringent  bond  to  both ;  and  between 
them  a  league  was  struck  up,  offensive  and  defensive, 
which  —  like  other  leagues  on  a  broader  scale  which  are 
supported  by  wealth  and  wickedness  —  was  formidable 
to  all  who  opposed  its  designs  and  movements. 


CHAPTER    III. 

Domiciled  in  the  little  village  of  Horbury,  over  which 
the  learned  doctor  ruled  with  undisputed  sway,  was  "  a 
widow  humble  of  spirit  and  sad  of  heart,  for  of  all  the 
ties  of  life  one  son  alone  was  spared  her  ;  and  she  loved 
him  with  a  melancholy  love,  for  he  was  the  likeness  of 
the  lost."  Moreover,  he  was  the  last  of  his  race,  the 
only  surviving  pledge  of  a  union  too  happy  to  endure  ; 
and  the  widow,  while  she  gazed  on  him  vv'ith  that  air  of 
resigned  sorrow  peculiar  to  her  countenance  —  an  air 
which  had  banished  the  smile,  but  not  the  sweetness, 
from  her  lips  —  felt  that  in  him  were  concentrated  all 
the  ties  which  bound  her  to  existence. 

"  Send  Cyril  to  me,"  said  the  doctor  to  Mrs  Dormer, 
when  he  called  to  welcome  her  to  the  village.     "  No 


RETRIBUTION.  ]93 

thanks  —  I  knew  his  father  —  respected  him  —  loved 
him.  I  like  an  old  family  —  belong  to  one  myself, 
thoLiorh  I  have  still  to  learn  the  benefit  it  has  been  to 


me 


I  " 


"I  fear,"  replied  the  widow,  timidly,  for  the  recol- 
lection of  very  limited  resources  smote  painfully  across 
her,  "  at  least  I  feel  the  requisite  pecuniary  consider- 
ation " 

"  He  shall  pay  when  he's  a  fellow  of  his  college  — 
shall  never  know  it  before  !  You've  nothing  to  do  with 
it  —  but  THEN  I  shall  exact  it!  We  will  dine  in  his 
rooms  at  Trinity,  and  he  shall  lionize  us  over  the  build- 
ing. I  have  long  wished  to  see  Dr.  Wordsworth  — 
good  man  —  sound  scholar  !  —  but  have  been  too  busy 
these  last  twenty  years  to  manage  it.  It's  a  bargain, 
then?     You'll  send  him  to-morrow?" 

And  the  affectionate  interest  which  the  doctor  took 
in  little  Cyril,  the  pains  he  bestowed  on  his  progress, 
and  the  evident  anxiety  with  which  he  watched  and 
aided  the  developement  of  his  mind,  were  one  among 
the  many  fine  traits  of  character  which  belonged  to  this 
warmhearted  but  unpolished  humorist. 

To  Dormer,  for  some  undefinable  reason,  Desbo- 
rough  had  conceived  the  most  violent  aversion.  Nei- 
ther the  youth  of  the  little  orphan,  nor  his  patient  en- 
durance of  insult,  nor  the  readiness  with  which  he  for- 
gave, nor  the  blamelessness  of  his  own  disposition, 
served  to  disarm  the  ferocity  of  his  tormentor.  Desbo- 
rough,  to  use  his  own  w  ords,  was  "  resolved  to  drive  the 
little  pauper  from  their  community,  or  tease  his  very 
heart  out." 

p  * 


194  RETRIBUTION. 

His  love  for  his  mother,  his  fair  and  effeminate  ap- 
pearance, his  slender  figure,  and  diminutive  stature, 
were  the  objects  of  his  tormentor's  incessant  attack. 
*•  Complain,  Dormer — complain  at  home,"  was  the  ad- 
vice given  him  by  more  than  one  of  his  class-fellows. 

"  It  would  only  grieve  my  mother,"  he  replied,  in  his 
plaintive  musical  voice,  "and  she  has  had  much, — 
oh!  so  much  —  to  distress  her.  I  might,  too,  lose  my 
present  advantages;  and  the  good  doctor  is  so  very,  very 
lenient  to  me.  Besides,  surely,  Desborough  will  be- 
come kinder  by  and  by,  even  if  he  does  not  grow  weary 
of  ill-treating  me." 

And  thus  cheered  by  Hope,  the  little  martyr  strug- 
gled on,  and  suffered  in  silence. 

The  4th  of  September  was  the  doctor's  birthday,  and 
was  invariably  kept  as  a  sort  of  Saturnalia  by  all  under 
his  roof.  The  day  —  ahvays  too  short  —  was  devoted 
to  cricket,  and  revelry,  and  manly  sports  ;  and  a  mead- 
ow at  the  back  of  the  shrubbery,  which,  from  its  being 
low  and  marshy,  Vv'as  drained  by  dykes  of  all  dimen- 
sions, was  a  favorite  resort  of  those  who  were  expert  at 
leaping  with  a  pole.  The  whole  party  were  in  motion 
at  an  early  hour,  and  Cyril  among  the  rest.  Either 
purposely  or  accidentally  he  was  separated  from  the 
others,  and,  on  a  sudden,  he  found  himself  alone  with 
Desborough  and  Rolleston.  "  Come,  you  little  cow- 
ard," said  the  former,  "  leap  this  dyke." 

"■  I  cannot,  it  is  too  broad  :  and,  besides,  it  is  very 
deep." 

"  Cannot  ?  You  mean  will  not.  But  you  shall  be 
made.     Leap  it,  sir,  this  inf?tant." 


RETRIBUTIOX.  195 

"I  cannot  —  Indeed  I  cannot.  Do  not  force  me  to 
try  it ;   it  is  deep,  and  1  cannot  swim." 

''  Then  learn  now.  Leap  it,  you  little  wretch  !  Leap 
it,  I  say,  or  I '11  throw  you  in.  Seize  him,  Rolleston. 
We  '11  teach  him  obedience." 

"Promise  me,  then,  that  you  will  help  me  out,"  said 
the  little  fellow,  entreatingly,  and  in  accents  that  would 
have  moved  most  hearts  :  "  promise  me,  do  promise  me, 
for  I  feel  sure  I  shall  fail." 

"  We  promise  you,"  said  the  confederates,  and  they 
exchanged  glances.  The  helpless  victim  trembled  — 
turned  pale.  Perhaps  the  recollection  of  his  doting  and 
v.'idowed  parent  came  across  him,  and  unnerved  his  lit- 
tle heart.  "  Let  me  off,  Desborough  ;  jjray  let  me  off," 
he  murmured. 

"  No  !  you  little  dastard,  no  !  Over  !  or  I  throw  you 
in  !  " 

The  fierce  glance  of  Desborough's  eye,  and  the  men- 
ace of  his  manner,  determined  him.  He  took  a  short 
run,  and  then  boldly  sprang  from  the  bank.  His  mis- 
givings were  well-founded.  The  pole  snapped,  and  in 
an  instant  he  was  in  the  middle  of  the  stream. 

"Help!  help!  Your  promise,  Desborough  —  your 
promise  !  " 

With  a  mocking  laugh,  Desborough  turned  away. 
"  Help  yourself,  my  fine  fellow  !  Scramble  out :  it's 
not  deep.  A  kitten  would  n't  drown  !  "  And  Rolles- 
ton, in  whom  better  feelings  for  the  moment  seemed  to 
struggle,  and  who  appeared  half  inclined  to  return  to 
the  bank  and  give  his  aid,  he  dragged  forcibly  away 
The  little  fellow  eyed  their  movements,  and  seemed  to 


196  RETRIBUTION. 

feel  his  fate  was  determined.  He  clasped  his  hands, 
and  uttered  no  farther  cry  for  assistance.  The  words 
"  Mother !  mother  !  "  were  heard  to  escape  him  ;  and 
once,  and  only  once,  did  his  long  wavy  golden  hair 
come  up  above  the  surface  for  the  moment.  But  though 
no  human  ear  heeded  the  death-cry  of  that  innocent 
child,  and  no  human  heart  responded  to  it,  the  Great 
Spirit  had  his  observant  eye  fixed  on  the  little  victim, 
and  quickly  terminated  his  experience  of  care  and  sor- 
row, by  a  summons  to  that  world  where  the  heavy  la- 
den hear  no  more  the  voice  of  the  oppressor,  and  the 
pure  in  heart  behold  their  God ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 

The  grief  of  the  mother  was  frightful  to  witness. 
Her  softness  and  sweetness  of  character,  the  patience 
with  which  she  had  endured  sorrow  and  reverses,  the 
cheerfulness  with  which  she  had  submitted  to  the  priva- 
tions attendant  on  very  limited  resources,  had  given 
place  to  unwonted  vehemence  and  sternness.  She  cursed 
the  destroyers  of  her  child  in  the  bitterness  of  her  soul. 
"  God  will  avenge  me  !  His  frown  will  darken  their 
path  to  their  dying  hour.  As  the  blood  of  Abel  cried 
up  from  the  ground  against  the  first  murderer,  so  the 
blood  of  my  Cyril  calls  fcr  vengeance  on  those  who  sac- 
rificed him.  I  shall  see  it, — I  shall  see  it.  The  mea- 
sure meted  out  by  them  to  others,  shall  be  measured  unto 
them  as^ahi."     It  was  in  vain  that  kind-hearted  nei^h- 


RETRIBUTION.  107 

bois  suggested  to  her  topics  of  consolation.  She 
mourned  as  one  tliat  would  not  be  comforted.  "  The 
only  child  of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow  1  ''  was  her 
invariable  reply.  "  No !  For  me  there  is  nought  but 
quenchless  regrets  and  ceaseless  weeping !  "  Among 
those  who  tendered  their  friendly  offices  was  the  warm- 
hearted doctor.  Indifferent  to  his  approach  and  in  ap- 
pearance lost  to  every  thing  else  around  her,  she  was 
sitting  among  Cyril's  books  —  inspecting  his  little  draw- 
ings—  arranging  his  playthings  —  and  apparently  care- 
fully collecting  together  every  object,  however  trivial, 
with  which  his  loved  memory  could  be  associated. 

To  the  doctor's  kind  though  tremulous  inquiries  she 
had  but  one  reply  —  "  Alone  —  alone  in  the  tcorld." 

His  offer  of  a  home  in  his  own  house  was  declined 
with  the  remark  —  "  My  summer  is  so  nearly  over  it 
matters  not  where  the  leaves  fall." 

And  when  he  pressed  her  under  any  circumstances  to 
entertain  the  offer  made  through  him  —  by  a  wealthy 
kinsman  of  her  husband  —  of  a  shelter  under  his  roof 
for  any  period,  however  protracted  —  "Too  late!  too 
late!"  was  her  answer  —  ''^  Amhition  is  cold  icith  the 
ashes  of  those  we  love  !  " 

But  the  feelings  of  the  mourner  had  been  painfully 
exasperated  by  the  result  of  a  previous  inquiry.  An 
inquest  was  indispensable;  and  rumor  —  we  may  say 
facts  —  spoke  so  loudly  against  Desborough,  that  his 
parents  hurried  to  Horbury,  prepared  at  any  pecuniary 
sacrifice  to  extricate  him  from  the  obloquy  which  threat- 
ened him.  Money  judiciously  bestowed  will  effect  im- 
possibilities ;  and  the  foreman  of  the  jury  —  a  bustling, 


198  RETRIBUTION. 

clamorous,  spouting  democrat  —  who  was  always  el- 
oquent on  the  wrongs  of  his  fellow-men,  and  kept  the 
while  a  most  watchful  eye  to  his  own  interests  —  be- 
came on  a  sudden  "  thoroughly  satisfied  that  Mr.  Vin- 
cent Desborough  had  been  cruelly  calumniated,"  and 
that  the  whole  affair  was  "  a  matter  of  accident  alto- 
gether." 

A   verdict  to  that  effect  was   accordingly  returned ! 

The  unhappy  mother  heard  the  report  of  these  pro- 
ceedings, and  it  seemed  to  scorch  her  very  soul. 

"  The  covetous,  craving,  earth-worm  I  "  she  cried. 
"  He  thinks  he  has  this  day  clenched  a  most  successful 
bargain !  But  no  !  from  this  hour  the  face  of  God  is 
against  him  !  Can  it  be  otherwise  ?  He  that  jiistijieth 
the  wicked,  and  condcmneth  the  just,  are  they  not  both 
equal  abomination  in  the  sight  of  God  1  For  years  the 
wickedness  of  this  hour  will  be  present  before  the 
Great,  Just  Spirit,  and  will  draw  down  a  curse  on 
his  every  project.  I  am  as  confident  of  it  as  if  I  saw 
the  whole  course  of  this  man's  after  life  spread  out  be- 
fore me.     Henceforth  God  fights  against  him!'^ 

It  was  a  curious  coincidence,  the  solution  of  which 
is  left  to  better  casuists  than  myself,  that  from  the  hour 
in  which  he  was  bribed  to  smother  inquiry,  and  throw  a 
shield  over  crime,  misfortune  and  reverses  in  unbroken 
succession  assailed  him.  His  property  melted  away 
from  his  grasp  with  unexampled  rapidity.  And  when,  a 
few  years  afterwards,  the  kinsman,  already  alluded  to, 
left  poor  Dormer's  mother  a  small  annuity,  it  so  chanced 
as  she  quitted  the  vestry  with  the  requisite  certificates 
of  birth   and  marriage  in  her  hands,  she  encountered 


RETRIBUTION.  199 

this  very  juror  in  the  custody  of  the  parish  officers,  who 
were  bringing  him  before  the  proper  authorities  to  swear 
hiin  to  his  settlement,  and  then  obtain  an  order  to  pass 
him  forthwith  to  the  parish  workhouse. 


CHAPTER    V. 

A  few  years  after  tlie  melancholy  scene  at  Horbury, 
Desborough  was  admitted  at  Cambridge.  He  was  the 
sporting  man  of  a  non-reading  college.  Around  him 
were  gathered  all  the  coaching,  betting,  driving,  racing 
characters  of  the  University  —  the  *'  Varmint  7ncn,"  as 
they  called  themselves — "  The  DeviVs  Oivn,'^  as  others 
named  them.  It  was  a  melancholy  sojourn  for  Desbo- 
rough. The  strictness  of  academical  rule  put  down 
every  attempt  at  a  cockpit,  a  badger  hunt,  or  a  bull  bait. 
It  was  a  painfully  momentous  life ;  and  to  enliven  it  he 
got  up  a  rat-hunt.  Appertaining  to  him  was  a  little 
knowing  dog,  with  a  sharp  quick  eye,  and  a  short  curled 
up  tail,  who  Avas  discovered  to  have  an  invaluable  an- 
tipathy to  rats,  and  an  iHiparalleled  facility  in  despatch- 
ing them.  What  discovery  could  be  more  opportune  ! 
Rat-hunts  wiled  away  many  a  lagging  hour ;  and  the 
squeaks,  and  shrieks,  and  shouts,  which  on  these  occa- 
sions issued  from  Desborough's  rooms,  were  pronounced 
by  the  senior  tutor  "  quite  irregular ;  "  and  by  the 
master  to  be  ''  by  no  means  in  keeping  with  the  gravity 
cf  college  discipline.''     To  the  joy  of  all  the  staid  and 


200  RETRIBUTIO.V. 

sober   members  of  the   society  these  sounds  at  length 
were  hushed,  for  Desborough  quitted  the  University. 

*'  What  a  happy  riddance  !  "  said,  on  the  morning  of 
liis  departure,  a  junior  fellow  who  had  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  domicile  on  the  same  staircase.  *'  His  rooms 
had  invariably  such  an  unsavory  smell  that  it  was  quite 
disagreeable  to  pass  them  !  " 

**  And  would  you  believe  it,"  cried  another,  who 
used  to  excruciate  the  ears  of  those  above  and  below 
him  by  the  most  rasping  inflictions  on  a  tuneless  fiddle  ; 
"  would  you  believe  it,  after  the  noise  and  uproar  with 
which  his  rooms  were  familiar,  that  whenever  I  began 
one  of  those  sweetly  soothing  airs  of  Bellini,  his  gyp 
used  to  come  to  me  with  his  master's  compliments,  and 
he  was  sorry  to  disturb  me,  but  really  the  noise  in  my 
rooms  —  fancy  —  the  noise  !  was  so  great  that  he  was 
unable  to  read  while  it  lasted  !  " 

"  He  was  so  little  accomplished  —  played  the  worst 
rubber  of  any  man  I  ever  knew,"  observed  the  dean, 
with  great  gravity. 

''  He  carved  so  badly!  "  said  the  bursar.  *'  He  has 
often  deprived  me  of  my  appetite  by  the  manner  in 
which  he  helped  me  !  " 

*'  And  was  so  cruel !  "  added  the  president,  who  was 
cursed  with  a  tabby  mania.  "  Poor  Fatima  could  nev- 
er take  her  walk  across  the  quadrangle  without  being 
worried  by  one  or  the  other  of  his  vile  terriers." 

**  The  deliverance  is  great,"  cried  the  musical  man, 
*'  and  Heaven  be  praised  for  it !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  said  the  ether  two  ;  "  but  good  Heavens ! 
we  have  missed  the  dinner  hell  !  " 


RETRIBUTION.  201 


CHAPTER    VI. 


Ill  a  fair  and  fertile  valley,  where  the  nightingales  are 
to  be  heard  earlier  and  later  in  the  year  than  in  any 
other  part  of  England  —  where  the  first  bursting  of  the 
buds  is  seen  in  the  spring  —  where  no  rigor  of  the  sea- 
sons can  ever  be  felt  —  where  every  thing  seems  formed 
for  precluding  the  very  thought  of  wickedness,  lived  a 
loved  and  venerated  clergyman  with  his  only  daughter. 

He  belonged  to  a  most  distinguished  family,  and  had 
surrendered  brilliant  prospects  to  embrace  the  profes- 
sion of  his  choice.  And  right  nobly  had  he  adorned 
it !  And  she  —  the  companion  of  his  late  and  early 
hours  —  his  confidante  —  guide  —  almoner  —  consoler, 
—  was  a  young,  fair,  and  innocent  being,  whose  heart 
was  a  stranger  to  duplicity,  and  her  tongue  to  guile. 

His  guide  and  consoler  was  she  in  the  truest  sense  of 
the  term.  He  was  blind.  While  comforting  in  his  dy- 
ing moments  an  old  and  valued  parishioner,  Mr.  Som- 
erset had  caught  the  infection  ;  and  the  fever  settling 
in  his  eyes  had  deprived  him  of  vision. 

"  I  will  be  your  curate,"  said  the  affectionate  girl, 
v/hen  the  old  man,  under  the  pressure  of  this  calamity, 
talked  of  retiring  altogether  from  duty.  The  prayers, 
and  psalms  and  lessons  you  have  long  known  by  heart ; 
and  your  addresses,  as  you  call  them,  we  all  prefer  to 
your  written  sermons.  Pray  — pray  —  accept  of  me  as 
your  curate,  and  make  a  trial  of  my  services  in  guid- 


202  RETRIBUTION. 

ing  and  prompting  you,  ere  you  surrender  your  beloved 
charge  to  a  stranger." 

"  It  would  break  my  heart  to  do  so,"  said  the  old 
man  faintly. 

The  experiment  was  made,  and  succeeded,  and  it 
was  delightful  to  see  that  fair-haired,  bright-eyed  girl 
steadying  her  father's  tottering  steps  —  prompting  him 
in  the  service  when  his  memory  failed  —  guiding  him 
to  and  from  the  sanctuary,  and  watching  over  him  with 
the  truest  and  tenderest  affection  —  an  affection  which 
no  wealth  could  purchase,  and  no  remuneration  repay, 
for  it  sp'rung  from  heartfelt  and  devoted  attachment. 

Satiated  with  pleasure  and  shattered  in  constitution, 
a  stranger  came  to  seek  health  in  this  sheltered  spot. 
It  was  Desborough.  Neither  the  youth,  nor  the  beauty, 
nor  the  innocence  of  Edith  availed  her  against  the 
snares  and  sophistry  of  this  unprincipled  man.  She 
fell  — but  under  circumstances  of  the  most  unparalleled 
duplicity.  She  fell  —  tlie  victim  of  the  most  tremend- 
ous perfidy  and  the  dupe  of  the  most  carefully  veiled 
villany.  She  fell  —  and  was  deserted!  "Importune 
me  no  more  as  to  marriage,"  was  the  closing  remark  of 
Vincent's  last  letter  —  ''your  own  conduct  has  ren- 
dered that  impossible."  That  declaration  was  her  death- 
blow. She  read  it,  and  never  looked  up  again.  The 
springs  of  life  seemed  frozen  within  her;  and  w^ithout 
any  apparent  disease  she  faded  gradually  away. 

"  I  am  justly  punished,"  was  the  remark  of  her  heart- 
broken father  when  the  dreadful  secret  was  disclosed  to 
him.     "  My  idol  is  withdrawn  from  me  !     Ministering 


RETRIBUTrON.  203 

at  HIS  altar,  nought  should  have  been  dear  to  me  but 
HIM  !     But  lead  me  to  her,  I  can  yet  bless  her." 

The  parting  interview  between  that  parent  and  child 
will  never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  witnessed  it.  The 
aged  minister  wept  and  prayed  —  and  prayed  and  wept, 
—  over  his  parting  child,  with  an  earnestness  and  agony, 
that  "  bowed  the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  him  like  the 
heart  of  one  man." 

"Is  there  hope  for  me,  father?"  said  the  dying  girl. 
"Can  I  —  can  I  be  forgiven  ?  Will  not  —  oh  !  will  not 
our  separation  be  eternal?  " 

"  Though  sin  abounded,"  was  the  almost  inarticulate 
reply,  "  grace  did  much  more  abound.  The  blood  of 
Jesus  Christ  cleanseth  from  all  sin." 

"  We  shall  not  be  long  parted,"  was  his  remark  when 
those  Avho  watched  around  the  dying  bed  told  him  he 
had  no  longer  a  daughter.  "  The  summons  has  arrived  ; 
and  the  last  tie  which  bound  me  to  earth  is  broken." 

Acting  upon  this  conviction,  he  commenced  and  com- 
pleted the  arrangements  for  the  disposition  of  his  little 
property  with  an  earnestness  and  alacrity  they  could 
well  understand  who  had  witnessed  his  blameless  ca- 
reer. 

The  evening  previous  to  that  appointed  for  the  funer- 
al of  his  daughter,  he  said  to  those  who  had  the  man- 
agement of  it —  "  Grant  the  last,  the  closing  request  of 
your  old  pastor.  Postpone  the  funeral  for  a  few  hours. 
I  ask  no  more.  A  short  delay  —  and  one  service  and 
one  grave  will  suffice  for  both." 

His  words  were  prophetic.     The   morrow's  sun   he 


204  RETRIBUTION. 

never  saw  ;  and  on  the  following  Sunday,  amid  the  tears 
of  a  bereaved  people,  father  and  daughter  were  calmly 
deposited  in  one  common  grave. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

In  the  interim  how  had  the  world  sped  with  Gervaise 
Rolleston  ?  Bravely  !  He  had  become  a  thriving  and 
a  prosperous  gentleman.  There  are  two  modes,  says 
an  old  writer,  of  obtaining  distinction.  The  eagle 
soars,  tlie  serpent  climbs.  The  latter  mode  was  the  one 
adopted  by  Rolleston.  He  was  an  adroit  flatterer  ;  pos- 
sessed the  happy  art  of  making  those  ^vhom  he  ad- 
dressed pleased  w  ith  themselves ;  had  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  tact,  and  always  said  the  right  thing  in  the 
right  place.  All  his  acquaintance  called  him  "  a  very 
rising  young  man."  And  for  "a  very  rising  young  man" 
he  held  a  most  convenient  creed.  For  to  forget  all  ben- 
efits, and  conceal  the  remembrance  of  all  injuries,  are 
maxims  by  which  adventurers  lose  their  honor  but 
make  their  fortunes.  In  a  happy  hour  he  contrived  to 
secure  the  acquaintance  of  Lord  Meriden.  His  Lord- 
ship was  an  amiable,  but  moody,  valetudinarian  who 
had  no  resources  in  himself  and  was  entirely  dependent 
on  the  good  offices  of  others.  Rolleston  was  the  very 
man  for  him.  He  was  a  fair  punster  —  told  a  good  sto- 
ry—  sung  a  capital  song  —  played  well  at  chess  and 
billiards,  and  most  unaccountably  was  always  beaten  at 
both  —  could  read  aloud  by  the  hour  together  —  and 


RETRIBUTION.  205 

never  took  offence.  To  all  these  accomplishments,  nat- 
ural and  acquired,  he  added  one  most  valuable  qualifi- 
cation, which  was  in  constant  exercise  —  the  most  pro- 
found respect  for  Lord  Meriden.  And  how  true  is  it 
that  "  we  love  those  who  admire  us  more  than  those 
whom  we  admire  ?  " 

Rolleston's  advice,  presence,  and  conversation  be- 
came to  Lord  Meriden  indispensable.  And  when  or- 
dered abroad,  by  those  who  foresaw  that  he  would  die 
under  their  hands  if  he  remained  at  home,  the  sick  no- 
bleman's first  care  was  that  Rolleston  should  accompa- 
ny him.  He  did  so  ;  and  played  his  part  so  successfully, 
that  in  "  remembrance  of  his  disinterested  attentions," 
Lord  Meriden  bequeathed  to  him  the  whole  of  his  per- 
sonal property.  His  carriages,  horses,  plate,  yacht,  all 
were  willed  by  the  generous  nobleman  to  his  pliant 
fivorite.  In  the  vessel  which  had  thus  become  his 
own,  Rolleston  embarked  for  England.  It  was  a  proud 
moment  for  his  aspiring  spirit.  He  was  returning  to 
those  shores  an  independent  and  opulent  man,  which  he 
had  quitted  fifteen  months  before  a  penny] ess  adventurer. 
His  family,  apprized  of  his  good  fortune,  hurried  down 
to  Ryde  to  receive  him  on  his  arrival.  They  vied  with 
each  other  in  the  length  and  ardor  of  their  consrratula- 
tions.  By  the  way,  what  extraordinary  and  overpower- 
ing affection  is  invariably  evinced  by  all  the  members  of 
a  family  towards  that  branch  of  it  which  unexpectedly 
attains  wealth  or  distinction  !  The  "  Fairy  Queen  "  was 
telegraphed  —  was  signalled  —  hove  in  sight  —  passed 
gallantly  on  —  and  all  the  Rollestons,  great  and  small, 

Q  - 


206  RETRIBUTION. 

pressed  down  to  the  pier  to  welcome  this  "  dear,  good, 
worthy,  accomplished,  and  excellent  young  man." 

At  the  very  instant  of  nearing  the  pier,  in  the  bustle 
and  confusion  of  the  moment,  Rolleston  was  sent  over- 
board. Some  said  that  he  was  overbalanced  by  a  sud- 
den lurch  of  the  vessel  —  others,  that  he  was  struck  by 
the  jib-boom.  One  staid  and  respectable  spectator  pos- 
itively affirmed  that  he  had  observed  a  sailor,  to  whose 
wife,  it  seemed,  Rolleston  had,  some  months  before,  of- 
fered insult,  rush  violently  against  him,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  injuring  him  ;  and  this  account,  strange 
as  it  appeared,  gained  considerable  credence.  The  fact, 
however,  was  indisputable.  He  struggled  bravely  for  a 
few  moments  with  the  eddy  that  sweeps  around  the  pier 
—  then  struck  out  boldly  for  the  shore,  waved  his  hand 
in  recognition  of  his  agonized  family,  who  were  almost 
within  speaking  distance,  and  in  a  moment  sunk  to  rise 
no  more. 

For  many  days  his  anguished  mother  lingered  at  Ryde, 
in  the  hope  of  rescuing  the  body  from  the  deep ;  and 
large  was  the. reward  promised  to  those  who  should  suc- 
ceed in  bringing  her  the  perishing  remains.  So  many 
days  had  elapsed  in  fruitless  search,  that  hope  was  fad- 
ing into  despair,  when  one  morning  a  lady  in  deep  mourn- 
ing inquired  for  Mrs.  Rolleston.  On  being  admitted 
to  her  presence,  — 

"I  am  the  bearer,"  said  she, ''of  welcome  intelli- 
gence :  I  have  this  morning  discovered  on  the  beach,  at 
some  distance,  the  body  of  your  son,  Gervaise  Rolles- 
ton." 

"  How  know  you  that  it  is  he  ? " 


RETRIBUTION'.  ^07 

"  I  cannot  be  mistaken  !  " 

"  Are  his  features,  then,  familiar  to  you  1 " 

"  Familiar  !     I  am  the  mother  of  Cyril  Dormer  !  " 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

It  is  painful  to  observe  how  soon  the  dead  are  forgot- 
ten. The  tide  of  fashion,  or  business,  or  pleasure,  rolls 
on,  —  rapidly  obliterates  the  memory  of  the  departed, 
—  and  sweeps  away  with  it  the  attention  of  the  mourner 
to  the  ruling  folly  of  the  hour. 

"  There  poesy  and  love  came  not, 
It  is  a  world  of  stone  ; 
The  grave  is  bought  —  is  closed  —  forgot, 
And  then  life  hurries  on." 

Engrossed  in  the  all-important  duty  of  securing  the 
property  which  had  been  bequeathed  to  their  son,  and 
which,  as  he  had  left  no  will,  there  was  some  probabili- 
ty of  their  losing,  the  Rollestons  had  completely  for- 
gotten him  by  whose  subservience  it  had  been  acquired. 
At  length  it  occurred  to  them  that  some  monument  was 
due  ;  or,  at  all  events,  that  a  headstone  should  be  raised 
over  him  who  slept  beneath  the  yew  tree  in  Brading 
churchyard ;  and  directions  were  given  accordingly. 
Their  intentions  had  been  anticipated.  A  head-stone 
had  been  erected  —  when  or  by  whom  no  one  could  or 
cared  to  divulge.  But  there  it  was.  It  bore  the  sim- 
ple inscription  of  the  name  of  the  departed  —  the  day 


208  RETRIBUTION. 

of  birth  and  the  day  of  death  ;  with  this  remarkable 
addition,  in  large  and   striking  letters  :  — ''  with  the 

SAME  MEASURE  THAT  YE  METE  WITHAL,  IT  SHALL  BE 
MEASURED  TO  YOU  AGAIN." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Some  years  after  the  circumstances  detailed  in  the 
last  chapter,  a  gentleman,  in  military  undress,  was  des- 
cried riding  slowly  into  the  village  of  Beechbury.  The 
size  and  architecture  of  the  village  church  had  appar- 
ently arrested  his  attention,  and  he  drew  bridle  sudden- 
ly, to  make  inquiries  of  a  peasant,  who  was  returning 
from  his  daily  toil. 

"  Ay  !  it's  a  fine  church,  though  I  can  't  say  I  trou- 
bles it  very  much  myself,"  was  the  reply.  "  There's  a 
mort  of  fine  munnimcnts  in  it  beside.  All  Lord  Somer- 
set's folks  be  buried  there  :  and  'twas  but  last  Martin- 
mas that  they  brought  here  old  parson  Somerset  and  his 
daughter  all  the  way  from  a  churchyard  t'  other  side 
Dartmoor,  because  ye  see  they  belong  to  'cm  :  and  these 
great  folks  choose  to  be  altogether.  It 's  a  grand  vault 
they  have  !  But  here 's  Moulder,  the  sexton,  coming 
anent  us,  and  he'll  tell  as  much  and  more  than  ye  may 
care  to  hear." 

The  name  of  Somerset  seemed  to  jar  harshly  on  the 
stranger's  car ;  and  dismounting  hastily,  he  demanded 
of  the  sexton,  "  whether  he  could  show  him  the  interior 
of  the  church  at  that  hour?" 


RETRIBUTION.  209 

"Certainly,"  was  the  reply.  —  "Turn  to  the  right, 
and  I  will  overtake  you  with  the  keys  before  you  reach 
the  west  door." 

The  church  \yas  one  of  considerable  magnitude  and 
surpassing  beauty.  It  was  built  in  the  form  of  a  cross, 
and  had  formerly  been  the  chapel  of  a  wealthy  monastic 
order,  suppressed  at  the  period  of  the  Reformation.  Near 
the  altar  was  a  shrine,  once  the  resort  of  pilgrims  from 
every  clime,  from  its  enclosing  a  fragment  of  the  true 
cross.  You  approached  it  by  an  isle  which  was  literal- 
ly a  floor  of  tombstones,  inlaid  in  brass  with  the  forms 
of  the  departed.  Mitres,  and  crosiers,  and  spears,  and 
helmets  were  all  mingled  together  —  emblems  of  con- 
quests, and  honors,  and  dignities,  which  had  long  since 
passed  away.  The  setting  sun  cast  his  mellow  radiance 
through  the  richly  painted  western  window,  and  tipped 
with  living  lustre  many  of  the  monuments  of  the  line  of 
Somerset.  Some  of  the  figures  were  of  the  size  of  life, 
and  finely  sculptured.  And  as  the  restless  and  agitated 
stranger  gazed  on  them,  they  seemed  to  reply  to  his 
questioning  glance,  and  slowly  murmur,  —  *'  All  on 
earth  is  but  for  a  period  ;  joy  and  grief,  triumph  and 
desolation,  succeed  each  other  like  cloud  and  sunshine ! 
Care  and  sorrow,  change  and  vicissitude,  we  have  prov- 
ed like  thee.  Fight  the  good  fight  of  faith  as  we. 
Brave  the  combat,  speed  the  race,  and  stem  the  storm 
of  life  ;  and  in  God's  own  good  time  thou,  like  us,  shalt 
rest.'' 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  stranger,  when  he  had  traversed 
the  church,  "  to  descend  into  the  Somerset  vault.     It 's 


210  RETRIBUTION. 

a  sickly,  foolish  fancy  of  mine  ;  but  I  choose  to  gratify 
it.     Which  is  the  door  ?  " 

"  Nay,  that 's  no  part  of  our  bargain,"  said  the  sexton, 
doggedly  ;   ''  you  go  not  there." 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  refusals,  when  I  state  my 
wishes,"  said  the  soldier,  fiercely  and  haughtily.  ''  Lead 
the  way,  old  man." 

"Not  for  the  Indies!  It's  as  much  as  my  place  is 
worth.  Our  present  rector  is  one  of  the  most  particu- 
lar parsons  that  ever  peered  from  a  pulpit.  He  talks 
about  the  sanctity  of  the  dead  in  a  way  that  makes  one 
stare.     Besides,  it  is  the  burial  place  of  all  his  family." 

"  The  very  reason  for  which  I  wish  to  see  it.' 

"  Not  with  my  will,"  said  Moulder,  firmly.  ''  Be- 
sides, there 's  nothing  to  see,  —  nothing  but  lead  cofiins, 
on  my  life  ! " 

"  Here,"  cried  the  stranger.  And  he  placed  a  piece 
of  gold  on  the  sexton's  trembling  palm. 

"  I  dare  not,  sir  ;  indeed,  I  dare  not,"  said  the  latter, 
entreatingly,  as  if  he  felt  the  temptation  was  more  than 
he  could  resist. 

"  Another,"  said  his  companion,  and  a  second  piece 
of  the  same  potent  metal  glittered  in  the  old  man's 
grasp. 

''  Well,"  said  Moulder,  drawing  a  long  and  heavy 
sigh,  "  if  you  must  you  must !  I  would  rather  you 
would  n't,  —  I  'm  sure  no  good  will  come  of  it,  —  but  if 

you  insist  upon  it,  sir,  —  if  you  insist  upon  it," and 

slowly  and  reluctantly  he  unclosed  the  ponderous  door 
which  opened  into  the  vault. 

The  burial-place  of  the  Somersets  was  large  and  im- 


I 


RETRIBUTION.  211 

posing.  It  was  evidently  of  antique  construction  and 
very  considerable  extent.  Escutcheons,  shields,  hatch- 
ments, and  helmets,  were  ranged  around  the  walls,  all 
referring  to  those  who  were  calmly  sleeping  within  its 
gloomy  recesses,  while  coffins,  pile  upon  pile,  occupied 
the  centre.  One  single  window  or  spiracle  of  fifteen 
inches  in  diameter  passed  upwards,  through  the  thick 
masonry,  to  the  external  air  beyond,  and  one  of  those 
short  massive  pillars  which  we  sometimes  see  in  the 
crypts  of  very  ancient  churches,  stood  in  the  centre  and 
supported  the  roof 

"  Well,  sir,  you  are  about  satisfied,  I  take  it,"  said 
the  sexton,  coaxingly  to  his  companion,  after  the  latter 
had  taken  a  long,  minute,  and  silent  survey  of  the 
scene  around  him. 

''  No  !  no  !  " 

''  Why,  how  long  would  you  wish  to  remahi  here  ?  " 

"  At  least  an  hour." 

"  An  hour  !  I  can't  stay,  sir,  really  I  can't,  all  that 
time  !  And  to  leave  the  church,  and,  what 's  worse, 
the  vault  open,  —  it 's  a  thing  not  to  be  thought  of  I  I 
cannot,  —  and,  what 's  more,  I  will  not." 

"  Dotard  !  then  lock  me  in,  I  say  !  Do  what  you 
v/ill.     But  leave  me." 

"  Leave  you !  Lock  you  in  !  And  here  !  God 
bless  you,  sir  !  you  can't  be  aware," 

"  Leave  me  !  —  leave  me  !  "  said  the  stranger  impetu- 
ously ;  and  he  drew  the  door  towards  him  as  he  spoke. 

"  What !  would  you  be  locked  up  and  left  alone  with 
them  dead  Som V 

"  Go,  —  and  release  me  in  an  hour." 


212  RETRIBUTIO.V. 

Ill  amazement  at  the  stranger's  mien,  air  of  command, 
courage,  and  choice,  Moulder  departed.  "  The  Jcljy 
Beggars"  lay  in  his  way  tiome,  and  the  door  stood  so 
invitingly  open,  and  the  sounds  of  mirth  and  good-fel- 
lov.'ship  which  thence  issued  were  so  attractive,  that  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  washing  away  the 
cares  of  the  day  in  a  cool  pint,  were  it  only  to  drink  the 
stranger's  health. 

This  indulgence  Prloulder  repeated  so  frequently  as  at 
length  to  lose  all  recollection  of  the  stranger,  of  the 
vault,  and  of  his  appointment,  and  it  was  only  late  on 
the  morning  of  the  following  day,  when  the  wife  asked 
him  "  if  he  had  come  honestly  by  ivhat  ivas  in  his  pocket?'''' 
that  in  agony  he  remembered  his  prisoner. 

Trembling  in  every  limb,  and  apprehending  he  knew 
not  what,  he  hurried  to  the  church  and  unlccked  the 
vault. 

The  spectacle  which  there  awaited  him  haunted  the 
old  man  to  his  dying  day.  The  remains  of  the  stranger 
vv-ere  before  him,  but  so  marred  —  so  mutilated  —  so 
disfigured  —  that  no  feature  could  be  recognised  even 
by  the  nearest  relative. 

Rats  in  thousands  and  in  myriads  had  assailed  him, 
and  by  his  broken  sword  and  the  multitudes  which  lay 
dead  around  him,  it  was  plain  his  resistance  had  been 
gallant  and  protracted.  But  it  availed  not.  Little  of 
him  remained,  and  that  little  was  in  a  state  which  it  was 
painful  for  humanity  to  gaze  upon. 

Among  the  many  who  pressed  forward  to  view  the  ap- 
palling spectacle  was  an  elderly  female  much  beloved  in 
the  village  for  her  kindly,  and  gentle,  and  compassionate 


RETRIBLTIO-V.  213 

heart,  and  to  her  the  sexton  handed  a  small  memoran- 
dum-book which  had  somehow  or  other  escaped  com- 
plete destruction. 

Upon  the  papers  it  contained  the  old  lady  looked  long 
and  anxiously,  and  when  she  spoke,  it  was  in  accents  of 
unusual  emotion. 

"  These,"  she  said,  "  are  the  remains  of  Colonel  Vin- 
cent Desborough.  May  he  meet  with  that  mercy  on 
High  which  on  earth  he  refused  to  others  !  "  The  old  la- 
dy paused  and  wept,  and  the  villagers  did  homage  to  her 
grief  by  observing  a  respectful  silence.  They  all  knew 
and  loved  her.  ''  This  spectacle,"  she  continued,  "  opens 
up  fountains  of  grief  which  I  thought  were  long  since 
dry ;  but  chiefly  and  mainly  decs  it  teach  me  that  the 
measure  we  mete  out  to  others  is  measured  unto  us 
ao-ain.  " 


214 


THE  MUSICAL  BOX. 


My  little  friend,  't  is  a  stormy  day, 

But  we  are  left  together; 
1  to  listen,  and  thou  to  play. 

So  we  '11  not  heed  the  weather  ! 
The  clouds  may  rise,  and  the  tempest  come 

The  wind  and  the  rain  may  beat  — 
With  thee  to  gently  play  "  Siceet  Home !  " 

I  feel  that  home  is  sweet ! 


The  yellow  leaf,  from  the  shivering  tree, 

On  Autumn's  blast  is  flying  ; 
But  a  spirit  of  life,  enshrined  in  thee, 

While  all  abroad  is  dying. 
Calls  up  the  shadows  of  many  a  year. 

With  their  joys  that  w^ere  bright  as  brief; 
And  if,  perchance,  it  may  start  a  tear, 

'T  is  not  the  tear  of  grief. 


'T  is  a  hallowed  offering  of  the  soul, 

From  her  richest  fountain  gushing  — 
A  warm,  live  drop,  that  has  spurned  control, 

To  the  eye  for  freedom  rushing  — 
As  Music's  angel,  hovering  near. 

To  touch  thy  tender  key. 
The  numbers  of  a  higher  sphere 

Is  pouring  forth  from  thee. 


THE    MUSICAL    BOX.  215 

And  while  I  feel  his  powerful  hand 

O'er  the  chords  of  Memory  sweeping, 
To  waken,  and  bring  from  a  spirit-land 

The  things  that  had  else  been  sleeping, 
It  lifts  my  thoughts  to  a  world  to  come, 

Where  the  parted  here  shall  meet, 
Secure  from  the  storms  of  life,  at  home. 

And  sing  that  home  is  sweet ! 


816 


COME  HOME. 


Come  home  1  —  there  is  a  sorrowing  breath 

la  music  since  ye  went, 
And  the  early  flower-scents  wander  by, 

With  mournful  memories  blent. 
The  tones  in  every  household  voice 

Are  grown  more  sad  and  deep, 
And  the  sweet  word —  brother  —  wakes  a  wish 

To  turn  aside  and  weep. 


O  ye  Beloved  !  come  home,  —  the  hour 

Of  many  a  greeting  tone. 
The  time  of  hearth-light  and  of  song, 

Returns  —  and  ye  are  gone  ! 
And  darkly,  heavily  it  falls 

On  the  forsaken  room. 
Burdening  the  heart  with  tenderness, 

That  deepens  'midst  the  gloom. 


Where  finds  it  you^  ye  wandering  ones 

With  all  your  boyhood's  glee 
Untamed,  beneath  the  desert's  palm, 

Or  on  the  lone  mid-sea  ^ 
By  stormy  hills  of  battles  old  ? 

Or  where  dark  rivers  foam  .-' 
Oh  !  life  is  dim  where  ye  are  not  — 

Back,  ye  beloved,  come  home  ! 


J 


COME    HOME.  217 

Come  with  the  leaves  and  winds  of  spring, 

And  swift  birds,  o'er  the  main  ! 
Our  love  is  grown  too  sorrowful  — 

Bring  us  its  youth  again  ! 
Bring  the  glad  tones  to  music  back  ! 

Still,  still  your  home  is  fair, 
The  spirit  of  your  sunny  life 

Alone  is  wanting  there  ! 


R* 


I 


218 


THE  MERRY  HEART. 


I  WOULD  not  from  the  wise  require 

The  lumber  of  their  learned  lore ; 

Nor  would  I  from  the  rich  desire 

A  single  counter  of  their  store. 

For  I  have  ease,  and  I  have  health, 

And  I  have  spirits,  light  as  air; 

And  more  than  wisdom,  more  than  wealth, 

A  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 


At  once,  't  is  true,  two  'witching  eyes 
Surprised  me  in  a  luckless  season. 
Turned  all  my  mirth  to  lonely  sighs. 
And  quite  subdued  my  better  reason. 
Yet  't  was  but  love  could  make  me  grieve. 
And  love  you  know  's  a  reason  fair. 
And  much  improved,  as  I  believe, 
The  merry  heart,  that  laughed  at  care. 


So  now  from  idle  wishes  clear 
I  make  the  good  I  may  not  find  ; 
Adown  the  stream  I  gently  steer. 
And  shift  my  sail  with  everj-  wind. 
And  half  by  nature,  half  by  reason, 
Can  still  with  pliant  heart  prepare. 
The  mind,  attuned  to  every  season, 
The  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 


THE    MERRY    HEART.  219 

Yet,  wrap  me  in  your  sweetest  dream, 
Ye  social  feelings  of  the  mind. 
Give,  sometimes  give,  your  sunny  gleam, 
And  let  the  rest  good-humor  find. 
Yes,  let  me  hail  and  welcome  give 
To  every  joy  my  lot  may  share. 
And  pleased  and  pleasing  let  mc  live 
With  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 


I 


i 


230 


AN  INCIDENT  VERSIFIED. 


Far  in  the  South  there  is  a  jutting  ledge 

Of  rocks,  scarce  peering  o'er  the  water's  edge, 

Wliere  earliest  come  the  fresh  Atlantic  gales, 

That  in  their  course  have  filled  a  thousand  sails, 

And  brushed  for  leagues  and  leagues  the  Atlantic  deep 

Till  now  they  make  the  nimble  spirit  leap 

Beneath  their  lifeful  and  renewing  breath, 

And  stir  it  like  the  ocean  depths  beneath. 

Two  that  were  strangers  to  that  sunny  land, 

And  to  each  other,  met  upon  this  strand  ; 

One  seemed  to  keep  so  slight  a  hold  of  life. 

That  when  he  willed,  without  the  spirit's  strife, 

He  might  let  go  —  a  flower  upon  a  ledge 

Of  verdant  meadow  by  a  river's  edge, 

Which  ever  loosens  with  its  treacherous  flow 

In  gradual  lapse  the  moistened  soil  below  ; 

While  to  the  last  in  beauty  and  in  bloom 

That  flower  is  scattering  incense  o'er  its  tomb, 

And  with  the  dews  upon  it,  and  the  breath 

Of  the  fresh  n^orning  round  it,  sinks  to  death. 


They  met  ihe  following  daj'-,  and  many  more 
They  paced  together  this  low  ridge  of  shore, 
Till  one  fair  eve,  the  other,  with  intent 
To  lure  him  out,  unto  his  chamber  went: 
But  straight  retired  again  with  noiseless  pace. 
For  with  a  subtle  gauze  flnng  o'er  his  face 


AN    INCIDEiNT    VERSIFIED.  221 

Upon  his  bed  he  lay,  serene  and  still 

And  quiet,  even  as  one  who  takes  his  fill 

Of  a  delight  he  does  not  fear  to  lose. 

So  blest  he  seemed,  the  other  could  not  choose 

To  wake  him,  but  went  down  the  narrow  stair  ; 

And  when  he  met  an  aged  attendant  there, 

She  ceased  her  work  to  tell  him  —  when  he  said. 

Her  patient  then  on  happy  slumber  fed, 

But  that  anon  he  would  return  once  more, — 

Her  inmate  had  expired  an  hour  before. 


I  know  not  by  what  chance  he  thus  was  thrown 
On  a  far  shore,  untended  and  alone. 
To  live  or  die;  for,  as  I  after  learned. 
There  were  in  England  many  hearts  that  yearned 
To  know  his  safety,  and  such  tears  were  shed 
For  him  as  grace  the  living  and  the  dead. 


22:3 


THE  ITALIAN  EXILE. 


When  the  minstrel  is  sorrowful,  sad  is  the  lay  — 
You  may  smile  on  his  song,  but  his  soul  is  away  ; 
For  no  theme  can  excite  this  cold  fancy  of  mine, 
So  far  from  the  land  of  the  Olive  and  Vine. 


There  passion  breathes  out  from  the  lyre  and  the  lute, 
And  the  voice  of  their  melody  never  is  mute ; 
Love  stamps  on  the  forehead  of  Beauty  its  seal. 
On  cheeks  that  can  burn  and  on  hearts  that  can  feel. 


Years  vanish  —  their  trace  on  my  brow  you  behold. 
Arid  my  heart  has  to  beauty  grown  careless  and  cold 
Yet  of  all  sweet  impressions  that  linger  there  yet, 
The  daughters  of  Florence  it  last  will  forget. 


Ye  Pilgrims  of  Beauty,  from  barbarous  lands, 
Behold  where  the  model  of  loveliness  stands ; 
Go,  kneel  by  the  marble,  if  marble  it  seem, 
And  Love,  with  its  torch,  will  illumine  your  dream. 


Lost  thoughts  of  your  youth  will  that  statue  renew  ; 
You  will  muse  on  the  home  of  the  faithful  and  true. 
Where  never  can  come  disappointment  or  care, 
And  the  beings  arc  pure  as  that  image  is  fair. 


THE    ITALIAN    EXILE.  223 

Italy  !  Italy  !  never  again 

May  the  minstrel  revisit  thy  mountain  and  plain, 

Yet  a  vision  of  bliss  on  his  slumber  there  breaks, 

But  to  dream  of  thy  shores,  though  an  exile,  he  wakes. 

Thy  present  is  beautiful ;  great  was  thy  past; 
May  the  future  restore  thee  to  greatness  at  last ! 
The  home  of  my  fathers  !  the  land  of  the  sun ! 
Honored  though  distant,  and  dear  though  undone. 


224 


STANZAS. 


There  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart, 

"When  its  wild  passion-waves  are  lulled  to  rest ; 

And  the  eye  views  life's  fairy  scenes  depart, 

As  fades  the  day-beam  in  the  rosy  west. 

'T  is  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  they  melt  av/ay  ; 

And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet, 

But  hope  is  round  us  with  her  angel  lay, 

Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour  ; 

Dear  are  her  whispers  still,  though  lost  their  early  pov/er. 

In  youth,  the  cheek  was  crimsoned  witli  her  glow, 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then;  —  her  matin  song 

Was  Heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  wo 

Was  all  unheard  her  Eden  bowers  among. 

Life's  little  world  of  bliss  was  newly  born  : 

We  knew  not  —  cared  not  —  it  was  born  to  die  — 

Flushed  with  the  breeze  :  wet  with  the  dews  of  morn  ; 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky. 

And  mocked  the  passing  clouds  that  dimmed  its  blue  — 

Like  our  own  sorrows  ihen,  as  fleeting  and  as  few. 


And  manhood  felt  her  sway  too  :  On  the  eye 
Half  realized  her  early  dreams  burst  bright; 
Her  promised  bower  of  happiness  seemed  nigh, 
Its  days  of  joy,  ij^vigils  of  delight; 
And  though  at  times  miglit  lour  the  thunder  storm, 
And  the  red  lightnings  threaten  —  still  the  air 


STANZAS.  225 

Was  balmy  with  her  breath  ;  and  her  loved  form, 

The  rainbow  of  the  heart,  was  hovering  there. 

'T  is  in  life's  noontide  she  is  nearest  seen  ; 

Pier  wreath,  the  summer  flower ;  her  robe,  of  summer  green. 

But,  though  less  dazzling  in  her  twilight  dress. 

There  's  more  of  heaven's  pure  beam  about  her  now  ; 

That  angel  smile  of  tranquil  loveliness 

Which  the  mind  dreams  of,  glowing  on  her  brow ; 

That  smile  will  mingle  with  the  evening  star 

That  points  our  destined  tomb  ;  nor  e'er  depart 

'Till  the  faint  light  of  life  is  fled  afar. 

And  hush'd  the  last  deep  beating  of  the  heart. 

The  meteor  bearer  of  our  parting  breath  — 

A  moonbeam  in  the  midnight  storm  of  death. 


THE  KEEPSAKE. 

The  tedded  hay,  the  first  fruits  of  the  soil. 

The  tedded  hay  and  corn-sheaves  in  one  field, 

Show  summer  gone,  ere  come.     The  fox-glove  tall 

Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells,  or  in  the  gust, 

Or  when  it  bends  beneath  th'  up-springing  lark, 

Or  mountain  finch  alighting.     And  the  rose 

(In  vain  the  darling  of  successful  love) 

Stands,  like  some  boasted  beauty  of  past  years, 

The  thorns  remaining,  and  the  flowers  all  gone. 

Nor  can  I  find,  amid  my  lonely  walk 

By  rivulet,  or  spring,  or  wet  road-side. 

That  blue  and  bright-eyed  floweret  of  the  brook, 

Hope's  gentle  gem,  the  ev.'eet  Forget-me-not  ! 


226  THE    KEEPSAKE. 

So  will  not  fade  the  flowers  which  Emmeline 

With  delicate  fingers  on  the  snow-white  silk 

Has  worked  (the  flowers  which  most  she  knew  I  loved,) 

And,  more  beloved  than  they,  her  auburn  hair. 

In  the  cool  morning  tv/ilight,  early  waked 
By  her  full  bosom's  joyous  restlessness, 
Softly  she  rose,  and  lightly  stole  along, 
Down  the  slope  coppice  to  the  woodbine  bower. 
Whose  rich  flowers,  swinging  in  the  morning  breeze, 
Over  their  dim,  fast-moving  shadows  hung, 
Making  a  quiet  image  of  disquiet 
In  the  smooth,  scarcely-moving  river-pool. 
There,  in  that  bower  where  first  she  owned  her  love, 
And  let  me  kiss  my  own  warm  tear  of  joy 
From  off"  her  glowing  cheek,  she  sate  and  stretched 
The  silk  upon  the  frame,  and  worked  her  name 
Between  the  moss-rose  and  forget-me-not  — 
Her  own  dear  name,  with  her  own  auburn  hair  ! 
That  forced  to  wander  till  sweet  spring  return, 
I  yet  might  ne'er  forget  her  smile,  her  look. 
Her  voice,  (that  even  in  her  mirthful  mood 
Has  made  me  wish  to  steal  away  and  weep,) 
Nor  yet  th'  entrancement  of  that  maiden  kiss 
With  which  she  promised,  that  when  spring  returned, 
She  would  resign  one  half  of  tliat  dear  name, 
And  own  thenceforth  no  other  name  but  mine  I 


9^.    /^  •  yS^ 


927 


THE  OLD  MILL. 

And  is  this  the  old  mill  stream  that  ten  years  ago 
Was  so  fast  in  its  current,  so  pure  in  its  flow  ; 
Whose  musical  waters  would"  ripple  and  shine 
With  the  glory  and  dash  of  a  miniature  Rhine  ? 

Can  this  be  its  bed  ?     1  remember  it  well 

When  it  sparkled  like  silver  through  meadow  and  dell ; 

When  the  pet-lamb  reposed  on  its  emerald  side, 

And  the  minnow  and  perch  darted  swift  through  its  tide. 

And  here  was  the  miller's  house,  peaceful  abode  ! 

Where  the  flower-twined  porch  drew  all  eyes  from  the  road ; 

Where  roses  and  jasmine  embowered  a  door 

That  never  was  closed  to  the  wayworn  or  poor. 

Where  the  miller,  God  bless  him  !  oft  gave  us  "  a  dance," 
And  led  off"  the  ball  with  his  soul  in  his  glance  ; 
Who,  forgetting  gray  hairs,  was  as  loud  in  his  mirth 
As  the  veriest  youngsters  that  circled  his  hearth. 

Blind  Ralph  was  the  only  musician  we  had. 

But  his  tunes  —  oh  !  such  tunes  —  would  make  any  heart  glad  ; 

"  The  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England,"   and  "  Green  grow  the 

Rushes," 
Woke   our   eyes'    brightest  beams   and   our   cheeks'   warmest 

flushes. 

No  lustre  resplendent  its  brilliancy  shed. 

But  the  wood  fire  blazed  high,  and  the  board  was  well  spread  ; 
Our  seats  were  undamasked,  our  partners  were  rough. 
Yet,  yet  we  were  happy,  and  that  was  enough  ! 


228  THE    OLD    MILL. 

This  is  the  old  mill  where  we  idled  away 
Our  holjday  hours  on  a  clear  summer  day  ; 
Where  Roger,  the  miller's  boy,  lolled  on  a  sack, 
And  chorused  his  song  to  the  merry  click-clack. 

But,  lo  !  what  rude  sacrilege  here  hath  done  ? 

The  streamlet  no  longer  purls  on  in  the  sun ; 

Its  course  has  been  turned,  and  the  desolate  edge 

Is  now  mournfully  covered  with  d1.ick-weed  and  sedge. 

The  Mill  is  in  ruins.  —  No  welcoming  sound 

In  the  mastiff's  quick  bark  and  the  wheels  dashing  round 

The  house,  too,  is  gone,  and  all  's  in  decay. 

And  the  miller,  long  dead  :  all  I  loved  passed  away  ! 

This  play-place  of  childhood  was  graved  on  my  heart, 
In  rare  paradise  colors  that  now  must  depart ; 
The  old  mill  's  in  decay,  thfe  fair  vision  is  fled, — 
And  I  weep  o'er  its  wreck  as  I  do  for  the  dead. 


229 


THE  LANSBYS  OE  LANSBY  HALL. 


CHAPTER    I. 

A  BLEAK  January  day  had  settled  down  into  a  night 
of  continued  snow.  Every  now  and  then  a  wilder  gust 
of  wind  made  the  windows  of  the  old  manor-house  rat- 
tle, and  the  party  assembled  in  the  dining-room  draw 
closer  to  the  fire.  This  consisted  only  of  Mr.  Merton, 
the  proprietor  of  Merton  Manor  —  a  quiet,  sedate  look- 
ing gentleman  of  about  fifty  years  of  age  —  his  wife  and 
daughter.  The  weather  seemed  to  forbid  the  slightest 
chance  of  a  visiter,  and  after  a  silent  and  somewhat  hur- 
ried dinner,  the  squire  drew  a  little  round  table  to  the 
side  of  the  chimney,  and  sipt  his  wine,  with  his  eyes 
intently  fixed  upon  the  burning  masses  of  wood  with 
which  the  fire-place  was  filled.  After  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  discover  a  body  to  a  splendid  Turk,  whose 
head  he  saw  frowning  majestically  from  a  fragment  of  a 
pine  log,  he  turned  about  in  despair  to  his  wife,  and 
said,  "  I  really  wish,  my  dear,  my  father  had  taught  me 
something  or  other  to  do  in  a  snowy  winter  night. 
Drinking  by  one's  self  is  so  desperately  dull." 

"  Can't  you  take  a  book,  Mr.  Merton?"  replied  the 
lady;  "here  is  a  most  beautiful  story,  *  The  Woes  of 
Clementina ; '  it  will  make  you  delightfully  melancholy 
for  a  whole  night." 


230  THE  LANSEYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL 

"  No  great  miracle  if  it  does,  especially  in  such  a  dis- 
mal night  as  this.  I  have  n't  seen  a  soul  for  three  days, 
and  if  this  snow  continues  for  twelve  hours,  we  shall  all 
be  buried  alive.  What  would  1  give  now  for  some  fellow 
to  drop  in  !  Bat  who  the  deuce  would  move  out  in  a 
storm  like  this,  that  could  possibly  stay  at  home?" 

Mr.  Merton  sighed  as  he  concluded,  and  made  a  sec- 
ond attempt  to  discover  the  body  of  the  Turk.  But  he 
was  suddenly  startled  from  this  occupation  by  a  noise 
outside  the  window. 

"  Wheels,  by  all  that's  happy!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
hear  them  coming  down  the  avenue.  There  —  they're 
come  past  the  bridge  —  now  they're  at  the  garden  cor- 
ner—  they're  stopt  —  they're  at  the  gate.  Yv'ho  can  it 
be?" 

"  I  told  the  butcher,  as  he  returned  from  the  market, 
to  bring  me  the  third  volume  of  The  Orphan's  Tears 
from  Ihe  circulating  library.  I  hope  he  has  brought  it 
in  his  ffig." 

"  I  hope  no  such  thing.     I  wish  the  scoundrel  may 
drive  into  the  mote  if  he  has  raised   all   my   hopes  for 
nothing  ;  but    no  —  it   was    a   four   wheeled    carriage. 
^  Why  do  n't  some  of  them  go  to  the  door  ?  " 

A  bustle  was  now  heard  in  the  hall  —  somebody  cer- 
tainly came  in,  —  the  words  great-coat,  portmanteau, 
bed-room,  were  heard  in  the  dining-room,  —  the  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  in  walked  Mr.  Nathaniel  Clack, 
the  very  oldest  friend  Mr.  Merton  had  in  the  world. 

"Merton!  my  boy,"  exclaimed  the  visiter,  as  he 
shook  hands  with   the   whole  party,  "  how  goes  it,   eh? 


THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL.  231 

Capital  night  this  for  a  visit  —  bad  weather  always 
makes  a  fellow  so  welcome." 

"  It  does  n't  need  bad  weather,  Nat,  to  make  you  wel- 
come here." 

"■  Or  any  where  else  faith,  if  the  truth  must  be  spoken. 
No,  no  —  hop  here  —  chirp  a  little  —  skip  there  —  gos- 
sip a  little  —  never  stay  long  in  the  same  place  —  talk, 
dance,  laugh  —  any  thing  by  way  of  a  laric  —  then  off 
like  a  shot  the  first  glimpse  I  catch  of  the  dismals." 

"  Ah,  that 's  the  way  to  enjoy  life  !  You  bachelors 
can  fly  about  just  as  it  pleases  you.  Where  do  you  come 
from  last  ? " 

"  From  Harry  Grumps's.  You  can't  think  what  a 
queer  old  fellow  he's  grown.  No  more  racket,  no  more 
whim  — dull  as  a  Dutchman —  and  yet  can't  help  pun- 
ning even  in  his  bluest  fits,  and  with  such  a  miserable 
long  face,  that  you  are  satisfied,  if  punning  is  a  crime, 
he  is  doing  penance  for  it  in  the  moment  of  conimission. 
We  had  capital  fun  for  two  days." 

"  What !  even  though  Mr.  Grumps  was  so  melan- 
choly ? "  said  Mrs.  Merton. 

"To  be  sure,  —  the  very  thing  that  kept  us  happy. 
There  is  nothing  half  so  amusing  as  a  fellow  continually 
croaking,  —  wishing  the  weather  would  clear  up, — 
that  somebody  would  come  in,  —  that  he  had  a  liking 
for  books,  —  in  short,  regularly  non-plussed  for  want  of 
something  to  do.  I  always  make  a  point  of  ridiculing 
such  absurd  hypochondriacs." 

"  Do  you?"  said  Mr.  Merton,  poking  off  the  TurV's 
head  ;  "  but  you  tired  of  it  at  last? " 

"  Why,  yes,  two  days  are  quite  enough ;  so,  as  it  was 


23'2  THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

a  miserably  bleak,  raw,  and  gusty  morning,  I  ordered 
my  phaeton,  and  drove  across  the  six-and-thirty  miles, 
to  bestow  a  little  of  my  tediousness  on  you.  Have  you 
any  news? " 

"  No,  I  do  n't  think  any  thing  has  happened  since  I 
saw  you  last.  I  think  I  told  you  I  changed  my  gray 
horse  for  a  black  one." 

"Yes,  so  have  I  my  w^ig,  —  don't  you  see  what  a 
magnificent  Brutus  I  am,  —  in  fact,  gray  hair  is  very  un- 
becoming, and  is  only  fit,  as  the  Psalmist  says,  to  go 
down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave." 

"  Well,  really,  if  you  had  n't  told  us  it  was  a  wig  " 

"  My  dear  madam,  don't  go  on.  Do  give  us  some- 
thing original.  I  've  heard  that  a  dozen  times,  and 
never  believed  it  a  bit  the  more.  What  would  be  the 
use  of  wearing  a  wig,  if  nobody  knew  it  to  be  one  1 
No,  no,  —  this  is  a  coat,  that  a  boot,  and  this  is  a  wig." 

"  Well,  Nat,  I'm  happy  to  see  you,  wig  or  no  wig, 
and  here  's  your  health." 

"  That 's  not  original,  —  do  let  us  hear  something 
new.  I  would  travel  from  Dan  to  Beersheba  to  hear 
something  out  of  the  common  way  ;  but  all  mankind 
,  seem  set  on  the  same  key.  Touch  any  note  of  the  in- 
strument, it  gives  out  exactly  the  same  tone." 

"  By  the  by,  Nat,  do  you  know  that  Lansby  Hall  has 
at  last  got  a  purchaser  ?  " 

"To  be  sure  I  do,  —  every  body  knows  it,  —  eighty 
thousand  down,  and  forty  more  in  three  months." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Merton  ;  "  we  do  n't 
even  know  his  name." 


THE    LA.NSEYS    OF    LANSBY    IIALL.  233 

"  Oho,  —  do  n't  you  1  —  why,  't  is  a  man  of  the  name 
of  Merivale.  No  one  can  tell  where  he  comes  from, — 
immensely  rich,  —  nobody  can  imagine  how  he  got  his 
money.     In  short,  he  's  quite  a  mystery." 

"  Is  he  old  or  young '?  "  continued  the  lady. 

'^Young  !  quite  a  young  fellow,  —  my  own  age, —  fif- 
ty or  so." 

''Tall  or  short?" 

"  Oh,  he  's  not  a  long  overgrown  monster  of  six  feet, 
I  can  assure  you.  I  heard,  indeed,  he  was  a  very  hand- 
some, dignified-looking  individual,  —  grave,  striking, 
distinguished.  I  should  take  him  to  be  somewhere 
about  my  own  height." 

The  lady  smiled.     "  Have  you  seen  him  ?  "  she  said. 

"No,  not  I;  but  we  were  all  talking  about  him  so 
much  at  Grumps's,  that  I  should  be  sure  to  know  him  if 
we  met  on  Mount  Caucasus." 

"  And  his  manege  ?  his  establishment  ?  " 

"  Grand  !  magnificent !  carriages  without  number, — 
horses  enough  for  a  battalion  of  the  guards.  When 
shall  we  go  over  and  call  on  him  ?  " 

"Is  he  arrived  already?  It  isn't  above  a  fortnight 
since  he  bought  the  estate." 

"Fortnight!  pooh,  man,  what  are  you  thinking  of ? 
Do  n't  you  know  that  he  carries  the  lamp  of  Aladdin  in 
his  pocket,  and  can  fit  up  a  palace  in  a  twinkling  ?  Half 
the  upholsterers,  painters,  paperers,  architects,  carpen- 
ters, and  masons  in  London,  were  down  for  a  week,  and 
for  the  last  five  days  the  proprietor  has  been  living  in  a 
fairy  palace  a  hundred  times  richer  and  more  gorgeous 
than  the  pavilion  of  an  Eastern  king." 


234  THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

"  The  devil  he  has  !  and  I  all  the  time  cooped  up  by 
the  snow  !  I  '11  go  over  to-morrow  and  ask  him  to  din- 
ner next  week." 

"  But  his  wife,  Mr.  Clack,  has  he  a  wife  or  children  ?" 

"  Faith,  ma'am,  I  do  n't  know  ;  if  he  has  any  thing  oi 
the  sort,  he  keeps  it  very  close.  I  rather  think  he  's  a 
bachelor,  —  the  roc's  egg  is  still  wanting." 

"  My  dear  Nat,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  we  are  very 
plain  people ;  what  in  the  world  would  Mr.  Merivale  do 
with  a  roc's  egg,  if  he  had  it  ? " 

''  Metaphorical,  —  I  was  only  metaphorical.  You 
recollect,  after  the  fairies  had  filled  Aladdin's  palace 
with  every  luxury  he  could  possibly  desire,  his  enemy 
the  conjuror  got  him  persuaded  to  ask  for  a  roc's  egg, 
which  would  have  turned  every  thing  topsy  turvy,  and 
led  him  the  life  of  a  dog ;  the  roc's  egg  is  only  an  alle- 
gory, and  means,  —  a  wife." 

"And  old  Lansby,  old  Sir  "Walter,  what  has  become 
of  him  ? " 

"  Ah,  there,  I  think,  he 's  very  foolish  ;  he  has  re- 
moved to  the  Springfield  farm,  the  only  spot  of  ground 
left  him,  and  I  believe  he  continues  to  be  as  stiff,  and 
vain,  and  heartless  as  ever." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  I  like  him  the  better  for 
it.  It  shows  there  is  some  good  stuff  in  him  to  keep 
up  his  pride  in  the  fall  of  his  fortunes.  I  never  liked 
him  as  lonpr  as  he  was  at  the  hall  ;  I  think  I  '11  go  and 

o  'is 

call  on  him  now  he's  at  the  farm." 

"  I  like  that ;  something  original  there.  I'll  go  with 
you.     I  should  like  to  see  Marius  moralizing  in  a  stack- 


THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL.  235 

yard,  but  I  think  't  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  placed 
his  Carthage  a  little  farther  off." 

"  Some  more  of  your  metaphors,  Nat.  Now,  I  think 
he  shows  his  wisdom  in  fixing  his  quarters  under  the 
very  nose  of  his  successor.  All  men  hate  their  succes- 
sors." 

"  And  you  may  depend  upon  it,  Sir  Walter  will  not 
be  deficient  in  hating  " 

"  Surely,  surely  he  won't  hate  Frank  Merivale,"  said 
Miss  Mary  Merton,  who  had  been  silently  listening  to 
the  conversation. 

"And  why  not,  my  little  sweetheart?  and  how  do 
you  know  any  thing  of  Mr.  Merivale  ?  and  how  do  you 
know  that  his  name  is  Frank?  Ha!  there's  some 
mystery  here." 

Mr.  Nathaniel,  as  he  asked  these  questions,  fixed  his 
looks  upon  the  young  lady  with  the  most  penetrating 
expression  he  could  muster,  for  it  was  one  of  his  weak- 
nesses, like  Dr.  Parr,  to  think  that  he  had  a  wonderful 
power  of  eye  ;  though,  like  the  ocular  organs  of  that 
vast  pedagogue,  the  glances  of  the  ungenerous  Nat  were 
at  all  times  rather  ludicrous  than  commanding. 

Oh!  I  merely  thought  —  that  is  —  I  think — his 
name  —  didn't  you  tell  us  his  name  yourself,  Mr. 
Clack?"  replied  Miss  Mary,  stammering  and  blushing. 

"His  name,  yes  I  certainly  told  you  his  name;  but 
not,  that  I  recollect  of,  his  Christian  appellation  —  but 
Frank  is  a  very  good  name ;  so,  as  I  was  saying,  de- 
pend upon  it  old  Sir  Walter  will  hate  him  with  most 
praiseworthy  bitterness,  whatever  be  the  name  he  rejoi- 
ces in.     He  certainly  is  the  most  revolting  old  vinegar- 


236  THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

faced  rascal  I  ever  met.  I  can't  bring  myself  to  utter 
a  syllable  beyond  the  commonplaces  of  society  in  pres- 
ence of  such  a  starched,  stifF-rump'd,  cold,  authorita- 
tive dictator." 

"  Well,  that's  very  odd,  fori  always  thought  you  re- 
markably agreeable  when  Sir  Walter  dined  with  us," 
said  Mr.  Merton,  utterly  unconscious  of  the  severity  of 
this  speech. 

*'  Sir  Walter  was  certaiidy  very  stiff  and  formal,"  con- 
tinued his  lady,  equally  unobservant  of  Mr.  Nathaniel's 
chagrin  ;  "  but  I  have  always  heard  he  was  a  very  re- 
spectable man." 

"  Exactly.  Wlienever  you  hear  of  a  respectable  man, 
write  him  down  an  individual  to  be  studiously  avoided. 
Sir  Walter  is  the  very  perfection  of  a  respectable  man, 
spotless  character,  regular  conduct,  church  twice  every 
Sunday.  People,  after  all,  are  very  good  natured,  and 
give  a  man  credit  for  being  virtuous,  merely  because  he 
has  never  been  convicted  of  a  crime.  Now,  if  a  wild 
young  fellow  like  me,  for  instance'' 

"  Yes,  Nat,  the  world  is  very  censorious  sometimes. 
You  recollect  what  a  noise  there  v>^as  when  you  broke 
off  with  the  Lancashire  heiress?  " 

"Recollect  it?  to  be  sure  I  do.  They  said  1  was 
wild,  cruel,  fickle,  vain  ;  'pon  my  honor  I  was  nothing 
of  the  kind.  I  certainly  paid  the  girl  a  great  deal  of 
attention,  and  we  certainly  appeared  to  be  mutually  at- 
tached, but  you  know,  my  dear  madam'' . 

"Oh  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Merton,  "I  know  all  about 
it.  She  was  engaged  all  the  time  to  her  handsome 
cousin,  and  tried  to  hide  it  by  flirtins"  with  you.     I  think 


THE    LANSBYS    OF    LA^'SBY    HALL.  237 

it  was  very  improper  beliavior,  and  that  you  were  great- 
ly to  be  pitied,  for  I  remember  ill-natured  people  laughed 
at  you  very  much." 

The  little  man  looked  very  much  disconcerted  by  this 
uncomplimentary  version  of  the  anecdote,  which  never- 
theless was  the  true  one,  and  took  no  notice  of  the  la- 
dy's observation.  ''  And  who  lives  with  old  Lansby  ?  " 
he  went  on,  turning  to  Mr.  Merton. 

"Only  his  daughter,  Miss  Julia." 

"Tall  and  straight  as  a  poplar  tree,"  replied  Mr. 
Nat  —  "  the  father  in  petticoats,  with  the  same  coldness, 
stiffness,  pride  ;  they  must  be  quite  happy  in  each  oth- 
er's society." 

"  They  are  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Mary,  whose  fair  brow 
had  for  some  time  been  gathering  with  a  frown;  "it 
can  only  be  the  weak  and  the  frivolous  who  can  accuse 
Julia  Lansby  of  coldness  or  pride.  There  never  was  a 
nobler  girl  in  the  world  ;  so  meek,  so  humble,  so  self- 
denying,  and  at  the  same  time  so  beautiful.  Every  new 
misfortune  that  befals  the  family  seems  only  to  call  forth 
new  powers  to  enable  her  to  support  it. 

"Hem,"  replied  Mr.  Nathaniel,  "we've  got  into 
dangerous  ground  here.  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Miss 
Mary,  I  meant  no  disrespect  to  your  excellent  and  amia- 
ble friend.  She  may  be  all  you  say,  and  a  thousand 
things  more,  only  don't  you  allow  yourself  that  in  gen- 
eral society  she  is  a  little  stately  or  so  ;  a  little  haughty 
as  it  were  —  and  imperial  ?  For  my  own  part,  I  prefer 
livelier  sorts  of  beauties  —  people  Vvho  are  ready  to 
laugh,  and  occasionally  descend  from  their  stilts  —  Miss 
Lansby's  smile" 

T 


233  THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

"Is  beautiful,"  interrupted  Miss  Mary. 

"Maybe  so  —  but  'pon  honor,  when  she  smiles  in 
answer  to  any  observation  I  make  to  her,  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  there's  a  kind  of  a  —  sort  of  a  —  don't 
you  remark  ?  —  a  kind  of  pity  as  it  were,  or  almost  — 
as  I  may  say  —  contempt" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Mrs.  Merton ;  "  I  dare  say  a  great 
many  young  ladies  do  that  when  you  speak  to  them,  but 
I  am  sure  Miss  Lansby  is  too  amiable  to  despise  any 
thing,  or,  at  all  events,  too  well  bred  to  show  it," 

"  Well,  thank  God  !  here  comes  my  mutton  chop," 
exclaimed  Mr.  Nathaniel,  quite  discomfited  by  the  un- 
intentional hits  he  received  from  the  one-idea'd  Mrs. 
Merton  ;  "  and  after  1  have  finished  it,  I  will  join  you, 
my  old  fellow,  in  a  single  pint  of  claret." 

"  We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  in  the  drawing  room," 
replied  the  lady,  and  followed  by  her  daughter,  she  left 
the  gentlemen  to  themselves. 


CHAPTER    II. 

The  old  man  was  sitting  in  a  high  backed  oaken 
chair,  his  hands  folded  before  him,  and  his  eyelids  close- 
ly pressed  together,  but  evidently  not  in  sleep  —  the 
motions  of  his  lips  and  the  fitful  contraction  of  his  brow 
showed  that  the  spirit  was  busy  within.  At  a  table  be- 
side him  sat  a  young  lady,  with  a  shade  of  settled  mel- 
ancholy visible  on  her  subdued,  yet  noble  features. 
She  turned  her  ryes  every  now  and  then  from  the  pa- 


THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL.  Q33 

per  on  which  she  appeared  to  be  sketching,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  anxious  affection,  to  the  troubled  counten- 
ance of  her  companion.  The  room  they  sat  in  was 
small,  and  very  plainly  furnished  —  the  sky  was  fierce 
and  stormy,  and  occasionally  the  old  casements  rattled 
loudly  when  a  wilder  burst  of  wind  than  usual  sent  a 
dash  of  sleet  and  hail  against  the  window  pane.  The 
old  man  started  from  his  recumbent  position  and  sat 
upright,  with  his  eye  fixed  keenly  and  harshly  on  the 
pale,  placid  face  of  his  daughter.  "Julia,  Lansby,"  he 
said,  "act  the  hypocrite  no  more  —  speak  to  me  no 
more  in  such  soothing  and  gentle  tones,  but  tell  me  at 
once  boldly  and  sincerely,  that  —  that  you  hate  me"  — 

"Father!"  — 

"There  !  how  dare  yon  call  me  father,  which  ought 
to  be  a  name  of  reverence,  of  piety,  of  love,  when  you 
well  know  that  in  your  heart  of  hearts  you  detest  me  as 
a  selfish,  cold,  unpitying  old  man  1 " 

"  You  wrong  me,  father  !  Never,  even  in  thought, 
has  my  affection  wandered  away  from  you.  I  have  no 
hopes,  no  wishes,  no  regret,  save  as  they  are  connected 
with  your  happiness.  For  my  own  "  —  here  she  sighed, 
and  added,  after  a  pause,  "  I  am  contented  if  I  only 
could  see  you  pleased  with  me  —  I  have  no  other  object 
now." 

"  And  why  not  now  ?  Is  it  because  we  are  poor  you 
can  no  longer  be  cheerful  as  you  used  to  be — because 
we  no  longer  see  '  company,'  as  they  call  it,  and  have 
our  ball-rooms  filled  with  the  grinning  sons  .ind  daugh- 
ters of  vanity  ?  The  loss  truly  is  great.  I  wonder  not 
at  your  despair." 


240  THE  LAXSBYS  OF  LA>SBY  HALL. 

*'  Oh,  father,  do  not  torture  me  by  speaking  so  un- 
kindly, You  know  that  the  loss  of  fortune,  that  poverty 
itself,  could  never  move  my  regrets." 

"  But  you  have  deeper  matters  for  sorrow,"  replied 
the  father,  with  an  ironical  sneer.  "Oh,  doubtless,  you 
have  many  more  griefs  to  weigh  you  down  than  ever  fell 
upon  me  ;  fortune  ruined  —  ftmiily  broken  —  hearth  left 
desolate  —  deserted  by  my  own  children,  and  supplant- 
ed in  my  own  ancestral  halls  by  a  purse-proud,  insult- 
ing villain,  who  "  — 

"No,  not  a  villain,  dear  fiither,  not  a  villain  "  — 

"  Yes,  madam,  a  villain  ;  I  say  a  proud,  presumptions, 
insensible  villain.  "What!  and  is  Francis  Lansby  still 
master  of  that  silly  heart?  T  charged  you  long  ago  to 
dismiss  him  from  your  thoughts.  Julia  Lansby,  why 
have  yoa  not  obeyed  me  ? " 

"  I  have  obeyed  you,  father,  in  all  things  possible.  I 
have  submitted  without  a  murmur  to  your  commands. 
I  have  given  you  my  promise  never  to  speak  to  him,  to 
write  to  him,  to  hear  of  him  or  from  him,  without  your 
consent ;  and  till  tiiis  extraordinary  occurrence,  I  knew 
not  whether  he  was  in  England,  or  whether  he  was  alive 
or  dead. 

"  And  he  thinks  by  coming  down  hither,  and  over- 
powering us  with  his  wealth  and  splendor,  to  make  us  re- 
gret having  rejected  the  alliance  of  so  mighty  an  indi- 
vidual as  Mr.  Francis  Lansby  Merivalc.  Oh,  had  my 
son  but  lived,  my  noble,  handsome  Harry"  —  Sir  Wal- 
ter put  his  hands  before  his  eyes  on  saying  this,  and 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  as  if  overcome  with  the  bit- 
terness of  his  reflections.     And  Julia  was  in  hopes  that 


THE  LANSBYS  OE  LANSBY  HALL.  '^U 

the  irritation  of  his  temper,  which  had  lately  increased 
to  a  most  distressing  extent,  would  be  soothed  by  the 
indulgence  of  his  grief.  But  she  was  mistaken.  Again, 
with  the  same  cold,  sarcastic  sneer,  he  turned  towards 
his  daughter,  and  said,  "  Your  meekness  and  resigna- 
tion are  truly  amiable  —  your  love  to  your  father  is  so 
sincere  —  your  gratitude  for  all  his  goodness  to  you  un- 
bounded   He  has  squandered  away  his  fortune,  and 

sunk  the  haughty  lady  of  Lansby  Hall  into  the  inmate 
of  no  loftier  a  dwelling  than  this,  — you  must  be  grate- 
ful to  him  for  having  saved  you  from  the  perils  of  wealth. 
He  has  charged  you  —  and  now  still  more  solemnly  than 
ever  charges  you,  to  banish  from  your  remembrance, 
or  to  remember  only  with  scorn  and  loathing,  the  wretch 
who  has  risen  upon  our  ruins,  who  looks  on  us  —  gra- 
cious heavens  —  perhaps  with  pity,  —  but  no  —  villain 
as  he  is,  he  dares  not  to  insult  us  with  his  pity.'' 

*'  What  —  what  has  he  done  to  deserve  your  anger? 
He  thinks  of  you,  I  will  answer  for  him,  only  as  the 
friend  and  benefactor  of  his  youth."  She  paused,  and 
then  added,  with  a  tone  of  touching  and  solemn  dig- 
nity —  "  Francis  liansby  tliinks  of  you  as  my  father." 

"  And  as  such  he  anscs  me,  or  the  Lansby  blood  has 
turned  to  milk  within  his  veins.  What  has  he  done, 
you  ask  me?  What  has  he  ?iot  done  to  baulk  and  in- 
jure me?  Does  he  not  live?  Is  he  not  '  a  gay  and 
prosperous  gentleman,'  with  hope,  fiime,  happiness  all 
before  him,  while  the  golden  locks  of  my  noble  Harry 
are  gone  down  into  the  dust?     Why  is  mi/  son  taken 

T  * 


242  THE    LANSBYS    OF    LANSBY    HALL. 

from  me,  while  fortune  showers  all  her  blessings  upon 
theirs  ?  " 

Julia  looked  in  her  father's  face  as  he  uttered  these 
words;  but  withdrew  her  eyes,  as  if  horror-struck  with 
the  fierce  malignity  of  his  looks  and  language. 

*' You  shudder,"  he  continued  :  "but  it  is  not  mad- 
ness that  makes  me  speak  thus.  See,  I  am  cool;  nay, 
I  can  smile  —  and  why  should  I  not?  Is  not  the  story 
I  am  now  about  to  tell  you  a  pleasant  one?  Come 
hither,  child,  and  listen.  —  I  was  an  only  son  ;  but  my 
father  was  afraid  I  should  be  spoiled,  as  only  sons  usu- 
ally are,  and  had  my  cousin  to  live  with  me  and  treated 
us  in  all  respects  alike.  Our  boyhood  passed  without 
any  occurrence  to  call  forth  our  characters,  except  that, 
probably  from  knowing  his  dependent  situation,  his 
manners  were  so  soft  and  insinuating,  that  they  formed 
a  striking  contrast  to  the  manliness  and  independence 
of  mine.  At  college,  to  which  we  went  together,  and 
where  by  my  father's  orders  our  intimacy  was  contin- 
ued, we  were  called  Lansby  the  proud  and  Lansby  the 
gentle.  I  confess  I  felt  myself  flattered  by  the  distinc- 
tion. We  returned  home;  we  haled  each  other.  At 
-all  events,  I  can  answer  for  myself;  for  him,  I  scarcely 
think  he  had  manliness  enough  to  hate  any  thing.  I\Iy 
mother  now  was  growing  old.  She  had  a  companion 
to  reside  with  her.  She  was  young  and  beautiful  — - 
surpassingly  beautiful.  She  w^as  a  relation  of  my  mcth- 
er's  —  high  born  and  poor.  Ere  long  I  preceived  that 
my  cousin  Edgar  u^as  passionately  in  love  with  Helen. 
What  right  had  he,  tlie  soft,  the  delicate,  the  gentle,  to 
lift  his  eyes  to  30  glorious  an  object   as  Hr Icn  Trevor 


THE    I^ANSEYS    OF    LANSEY    HALL,  243 

1  loved  her ;  and  it  added  to  the  intensity  of  my  passion 
to  think  how  the  insolence  of  my  rival  would  be  pun- 
ished when  I  should  ask  the  hand  of  the  object  of  his 
passion.  I  did  ask  her  hand  :  she  refused  it,  and  asked 
for  my  intercession  with  my  father  to  secure  his  appro- 
bation of  her  marriage  with  my  cousin.  From  that 
hour  I  hated  both.  Was  I  not  justified  ?  But  T  was 
revenged.  Edgar  was  going  into  orders.  My  father 
had  promised  him  the  family  living ;  the  incumbent  was 
inlirm  and  old.  They  married ;  I  gave  away  the  bride. 
They  lived  the  first  half  year  of  their  marriage  in  this 
very  house.  Here,  in  this  very  room,  they  sat  and 
gazed  on  each  other  in  the  first  happiness  of  their  mu- 
tual fondness.  My  father  died  ;  and,  shortly  after,  the 
living  became  vacant.  This  Francis  was  then  about 
tu'o  months  old.  I  called  upon  them,  and  told  them  of 
the  incumbent's  death.  I  described  the  beauty  of  the 
parsonage,  the  quietness  of  the  village ;  and  when  I 
saw  the  young  mother  stooping  down,  and  in  the  glad- 
ness of  her  heart  covering  the  child  of  Edgar  Lansby 
v/ith  her  kisses,  I  told  them  I  had  bestowed  the  living 
upon  another.  You  start  —  it  was  the  first  minute  of 
enjoyment  I  had  had  for  years.  But  they  still  were 
happy.  I  gave  them  notice  that  I  had  put  another  ten- 
ant into  Springfield.  They  left  it ;  he  procured  a  cur- 
acy in  some  distant  part  of  the  country.  I  married  ; 
and,  even  in  the  first  months  of  matrimony,  thought 
much  more  of  their  happiness  than  my  own.  My  Har- 
ry was  born,  and  yet  I  felt  no  diminution  of  my  hatred. 
At  your  birth  I  resolved,  if  possible,  to  repay  to  the  son 
the  no-ony  that  had  been  inflicted  on  me  by  the  parents. 


244  THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

I  have  succeeded.  One  after  another  they  died ;  they 
were  poor  and  miserable.  I  adopted  their  orphan  son  ; 
I  made  him  the  companion  of  my  children  ;  I  watched 
the  love  that  grew  up  between  you,  —  and  when  I  per- 
ceived that  it  was  too  firmly  settled  in  his  heart  to  be 
eradicated,  I  turned  him  loose  upon  the  world.  I  feast- 
ed on  the  agony  of  his  looks,  for  in  them  I  recalled  the 
expression  of  his  mother.  And  now  what  has  it  all 
come  to  ?  My  boy  is  dead  ;  and  this  wretch,  this  slave, 
whom  my  bounty  fed,  is  adopted  by  his  mother's  uncle, 
has  purchased  every  mortgage  upon  my  estate  ;  and  save 
for  one  consuming  sorrow,  one  passion  which  I  know 
from  experience  turns  all  his  other  feelings  into  gall  and 
bitterness,  he  would  be  too  happy  for  a  mortal  —  suc- 
cessful in  ambition,  in  love,  and,  above  all  in  revenge. 

Is  n't  this  a  pleasant  sketch,  and Ha  !  what  has  my 

madness  done?  Wretch,  wretch!  I  have  killed  my 
child  ! " 

He  bent  over  the  fainting  girl  with  his  hands  clasped 
in  agony,  and  his  whole  being  underwent  a  change. 
Cruel  and  malignant  as  he  had  truly  painted  himself, 
his  love  for  his  children  was  the  overpowering  passion 
.of  his  mind.  Since  the  death  of  his  son,  this  love  all 
concentrated  in  his  daughter  ;  and,  however  strange  or 
unnatural  it  may  appear,  the  value  he  set  on  her,  the 
pride  he  took  in  her  talents  and  beauty,  were  the  very 
considerations  which  prevented  him  from  bestowing 
them  on  any  one  whom,  justly  or  unjustly,  he  had  load- 
ed with  his  hatred.  He  knew  that,  by  the  bar  he  had 
placed  between  them,  her  happiness  was  as  much  sacri- 
ficed as  that  of  her  cousin  —  and  had  she  been  inditfer- 


THE    LANSCYS    OF    LAXSBY    HALL.  S45 

ent  to  him  he  would  not  have  condemned  her  to  so 
much  misery.  Hitherto,  indeed,  the  noble  behavior 
of  his  daughter  had  deceived  him.  Her  uncomplain- 
ing meekness,  her  gentleness,  and  her  dutiful  submis- 
sion to  his  will,  had  hidden  from  him  the  depth  of  the 
sufferings  she  endured.  And,  unknown  perhaps  to  him- 
self, there  was  another  ingredient  in  the  bitterness  of 
the  hatred  which  he  professed  to  entertain  for  Francis 
Lansby.  Since  the  astonishing  change  in  their  respect- 
ive situations,  her  former  lover  had  made  no  efforts  to 
discover  that  his  affection  for  Julia  was  unchanged. 
The  thought  of  his  being  able  to  forget  his  daughter 
was  more  galling  to  Sir  Walter's  disposition  than  even 
his  marrying  her  would  have  been. 

"  Waken,  Julia !  rouse  yourself,  my  child  ;  I  spoke 
too  bitterly  ;  misfortune  has  made  me  mad.  I  hate  him 
not."  Whilst  he  uttered  these  exclamations  Julia  slow- 
ly recovered,  and  looked  at  her  father  with  a  faint  smile 
as  if  to  thank  him  for  his  attempts  to  comfort  her. 
"  But  he  has  forgotten  us,"  he  continued;  "he  thinks 
not  of  us  —  and  why,  since  he  has  banished  you  from 
his  memory,  do  you  continue  to  waste  a  thought  on 
him  ?  " 

Ere  Julia  Lansby  had  time  to  reply,  Mr.  Nathaniel 
Clack  bustled  into  the  room,  followed  more  slowly  by 
his  friend  Mr.  Merton,  and  exclaimed,  "  Ha !  some- 
thing uncommon  here.  How  do,  Sir  Walter  ?  Miss 
Julia,  how  d'ye  do?  Any  thing  happened,  Miss  Julia?  " 

"  Miss  Julia  Lansby  is  suffering  from  a  slight  indis- 
position," replied  Sir  Walter,  assuming  even  more  than 
his  usual  stiffness  and  hauteur. 


24G  THE    LANSBYS    OF    LANSBY    HALI/. 

"  Change  of  air  —  nothing  like  change  of  air  for  re- 
covering strength.  I  recollect  an  old  rascal  in  my  own 
village,  capital  fortune  once,  never  moved  from  home, 
bad  health,  nervousness,  pride,  anger,  and  all  that ;  lost 
his  fortune,  went  to  another  house,  moved  about,  bus- 
tled immensely,  'gad  you  can't  tell  what  a  good-natured 
sort  of  fellow  the  old  curmudgeon  became."  Mr.  Nat 
went  on  relating  this  not  very  well-chosen  anecdote, 
disregarding  for  a  time  the  eye  of  the  proud  old  man, 
as  it  was  fixed  upon  him  with  the  most  withering  expres- 
sion of  contempt.  At  last  he  perceived  it,  stammered 
a  little,  sank  his  voice,  and,  after  several  attempts  to 
clear  his  throat,  stood  mute.  In  the  mean  time  Mr. 
Merton  had  been  paying  his  compliments  to  Miss 
Julia,  and  now  addressed  himself  to  Sir  Walter. 

"  Well,  Sir  Walter,  I  hope,  as  we  are  nearer  neigh- 
bors than  we  used  to  be,  we  shall  see  more  of  each 
other.  My  Mary  has  begged  me  to  make  a  strong  en- 
treaty for  a  visit  from  Miss  Julia." 

"  If  Julia  would  have  pleasure  in  leaving  her  father 
at  this  time,  she  has  my  full  consent.  It  would  ill  be- 
come me  to  interfere  with  the  enjoyments  of  the  young 
and  careless." 

-  "  Oh  !  if  you  can't  spare  her,  of  course  poor  Mary 
would  never  have  preferred  her  request.  She  knows 
Julia's  admirable  qualities  as  a  daughter  too  well  for 
that." 

"  Does  she?  And  does  she  indeed  suppose  that  I  am 
so  selfish  as  to  immure  her  in  a  desolate  place  like  this, 
merely  because  I  would  not  be  alone?  Julia,  you  shall 
return  with  Mr.  Merton." 


THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSEY  HALL.  247 

"  You  are  lonely  here,  father  —  the  days  are  dull  and 
dark.     It  would  be  better  " 

"I  have  said  it.  You  shall  visit  Mary  Merton ;  I 
shall  probably  have  business  to  arrange  with  the  new 
proprietor  of  the  Hail,  and  perhaps  it  may  be  better 
managed  in  your  absence.  Will  you  return  her  to  me 
in  a  week  ?  " 

"Certainly  —  and  in  the  mean  time  I  hope  the  soci- 
ety of  her  old  friends  will  be  of  use  to  her.  It  is  use- 
less, Sir  Walter,  to  ask  you  to  dine  with  me  on  Thurs- 
day next  ?     I  intend  to  invite  Mr.  Merivale." 

"Merivale?  and  you  ask  me  to  meet  Mr.  Merivale, 
to  dine  with  him,  talk  with  him,  hear  his  voice?  what"  — 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  knov/n  it  would  have  been  unpleasant, 
my  dear  Sir  Walter,  believe  me  I  should  never  liave 
mentioned  the  subject." 

"  On  Thursday  did  you  say?     Have  you  seen  him?  '' 

"  No.  We  are  just  on  our  way  to  the  Hall  to  pay 
him  our  respects." 

"On  Thursday?  He  will  certainly  accept  your  in- 
vitation. Julia,  you  will  meet  him  ;  I  wish  you  to  meet 
him." 

"  Aha,  Miss  Julia,"  interrupted  Mr.  Clack,  who  had 
by,  this  time  recovered  a  portion  of  his  volubility.  "  He 
is  quite  a  young  fellow,  I  understand.  Many  odd  things 
have  happened  in  that  sort  of  way.     Should  n't  be  sur- 

j)rised  if" but  the  unfortunate  Nathaniel  was  ao-ain 

afflicted  with  a  total  incapacity  to  conclude  his  sen- 
tence. 

Visibly,  as  clouds  over  the  sky,  flitted  dark  meanings 
across  Sir  Walter's  features ;  but  bv  an  elTort  he  seemed 


248  THE  LANSBYS  OF  LAKSBY  HALL. 

to  restrain  himself,  and  went  on.  "  You  shall  stay  with 
Mrs.  Merton  till  after  Thursday  ;  and  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  alter  my  mind,  I  will  also  join  your  party." 

*'  We  shall  be  delighted,  I  am  sure.  Can  Miss  Julia 
accompany  us  now  ?  My  close  carriage  is  at  the  door, 
and  on  our  return  from  the  Hall  we  can  guard  her  over 
the  snow." 

Sir  Yv^ alter  bowed  at  this  offer  ;  seemed  to  swallow 
some  proud  speech  he  was  about  to  make ;  and  with  a 
look  of  ineffable  disdain  to  the  now  quite  chop-f;illen 
Mr.  Nat,  said  —  ''Miss  Lansby  has  still  a  carriage. 
She  shall  go  to  Merton  Manor  whenever  her  prepara- 
tions are  completed,  and  on  Tharsday  I  shall  see  my 
child  again." 

There  was  no  gainsaying  any  thing  advanced  in  the 
authoritative  manner  -which  Sir  Walter  habitually  as- 
sumed ;  so,  in  a  ^ew  minutes,  the  gentlemen  were  on 
their  way  to  the  Hall —  Mr.  Nathaniel  Clack  muttering 
all  the  time  curses  not  loud  but  deep,  and  feeling  a  re- 
lief on  leaving  what  he  called  the  old  tyrant's  presence, 
pretty  much  akin  to  what  v/e  should  consider  the  sensa- 
tions of  a  monkey,  Vv^hich  by  some  miracle  has  made  its 
escape  fi-om  a  tiger's  den. 


CHAPTER  IK. 

"  This,  then,  decides  my  fate  for  happiness  or  mis- 
ery," said  Mr.  Francis  Lansby  Merivale,  as  he  rose  from 
his  writing-desk,  where  many  piles  of  paper  were  ly- 
inrr  ia   most  admired   disorder.     "The  e:-tate   is  once 


THE    LANSBYS    OF    LAiVSBY    HALL.  249 

more  disencumbered,  and  the  directions  of  my  benefac- 
tor complied  with,  in  restoring  the  old  hall  to  its  rightful 
owner.  What  then?  my  cause  is  still  more  hopeless 
than  before.  Even  if  1  prove  to  him  that  it  is  the  will 
of  the  person  leaving  me  this  fortune  that  the  property 
should  be  returned  into  his  hands,  I  know  his  indomita- 
ble pride  so  well,  that  the  gift  Vv'ill  be  viewed  as  an  in- 
sult ;  and  without  Julia,  what  happiness  is  it  to  me  to 
revel  in  useless  wealth?  Oh  !  for  the  glorious  days  back 
again  when  I  was  still  the  dependant  of  Sir  Walter  — 
still  the  companion  of  my  Julia  !  "  The  packet,  which 
he  folded  up  and  directed  to  Springfield  Farm,  seemed 
a  very  voluminous  one.  The  letter  which  accompanied 
it  contained  these  words  :  — 

"  The  estrangement  of  the  last  two  years  has  not  ob- 
literated from  my  heart  the  kindness  of  the  protector  of 
my  childhood.  With  my  whole  heart  I  thank  you  for 
the  home  you  afforded  me  when  other  home  there  w^as 
none  for  me  to  fly  to ;  and  frown  not  if  at  this  hour,  be- 
fore I  banish  myself  for  ever  from  the  scene  of  all  the 
memories  of  my  youth,  I  guard  myself  against  any 
suspicion  of  a  wish  to  conciliate  your  favor  by  the  step  I 
now  take.  The  Lansby  blood  flows  as  proudly  in  my 
veins  as  in  your  own.  You  would  spurn  me  as  I  know 
I  should  deserve  to  be  spurned,  if  you  f\mcied  I  had 
endeavored  to  purchase  a  reconciliation.  Deeply  as  I 
should  value  your  friendship,  and  unchanged  as  arc  my 
sentiments  on  a  subject  to  which  I  cannot  trust  myself  to 
allude,  I  cannot,  even  if  your  favor  were  accorded  me, 
accept  of  it  without  an  explanation  of  your  conduct, 
I  tell  you,  Sir  Walter  Lansby,  that  your  conduct  has 
u 


250  THE  LAKSBIS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

been  cruel  and  unjust.  In  the  pursuit  of  a  selfish  grati- 
fication you  have  ruined  the  happiness  of  the  person 
who  ought  to  be  —  nay,  I  will  do  you  the  justice  to  ad- 
mit, who  is  —  the  dearest  to  you  on  earth.  Do  you  de- 
ny it  1  Look  to  the  wan  cheek  and  wasting  form  of  her 
who  was  once  —  but  enough  of  this.  The  estate  is  now 
your  own.  The  will  of  Mr.  Merivale  is  enclosed  for 
your  perusal.  Think  not  that  I  entertain  a  thought  that 
this  change  in  our  positions  will  produce  any  change  on 
your  determination.  If  you  can  go  on  inflicting,  I  will 
show  you  that  I  can  continue  to  suffer.  From  this  hour 
you  shall  hear  of  me  no  more;  but  neither  time  nor 
distance  shall  make  me  forget  for  a  moment  the  being 
to  whom  I  consider  myself  united  in  the  sight  of  heav- 
en. Sir  Walter  Lansby,  she  is  mine  by  vows  indissolu- 
ble save  in  the  grave,  by  affections  which  grew  with  our 
p-rowth  and  are  unchano-eable  while  the  hearts  which 
nourished  them  continue  to  beat.  But  if  it  will  add  to  the 
piquancy  of  your  triumph,  I  will  not  conceal  from  you 
that  you  have  driven  me,  as  well  as  that  other  one,  to 
despair;  that  you  have  made  life  to  me  a  desert,  as  it 
has  long  been  a  solitude  to  her.  And  now  what  remains 
forme?  Wealth  which  I  cannot  enjoy;  youth  Avhich 
will  waste  away  in  misery ;  and,  bitterer  perhaps  than 
all,  a  consciousness  that  these  injuries  are  inflicted  by 
one  whom  I  have  ever  loved  —  and  whom  I  have  never 
offended." 

The  Thursday  appointed  for  the  party  at  last  arrived. 
With  a  degree  of  secrecy  which  entirely  eclipsed  the 
"Wonder"  of  Mrs.  Centlivre's  comedy,  the  two  young 
ladies  had  given  no  hint  of  the  identity  of  young  Frank 


THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL.  251 

Lansby  and  the  present  proprietor  of  the  hall.  Mr. 
Merton  and  his  friend  Mr.  Clack  had  been  refased  ad- 
mittance on  the  morning  of  their  call,  and  no  answer 
had  been  returned  to  the  note  of  invitation  which  Mr. 
Merton  had  despatched  on  the  succeeding  day. 

''  Devilish  queer  fellow  this  Mr.  Merivale,"  said  Mr. 
Nat.  "  lie  might  have  sent  an  answ^er  to  a  civil  note  at 
all  events,  if  he  would  n't  let  us  into  his  cursed  gimcrack 
of  a  house;  in  the  snow  too.  Well,  hope  he'll  come 
after  all — drop  in  on  us  —  something  new  in  that  — 
eh?" 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  will;  but  I  suspect  the  meeting 
will  be  a  very  odd  one  between  him  and  Sir  Walter." 

"  D d  old  tyrant,"  muttered  Nat. 

"  It  will  be  very  queer  to  see  the  first  salutation  ex- 
changed between  the  old  possessor  and  the  new  one." 

*'  Said  the  old  Jackdaw  to  the  young  Jackdaw,"  in- 
terrupted Mr.  Clacl-^ 

"  Come,  Nat,  out  with  your  best  stories.  Have  all 
your  smiles  and  similies  ready,  for  here  some  of  the  par- 
ty come." 

Sir  Walter  came  among  the  rest  ;  stately,  solemn, 
stiff  as  ever.  He  paid  his  respects  to  the  assembled 
guests,  then  looked  anxiously  round  for  his  daughter, 
led  her  up  to  one  of  the  windows,  gazed  earnestly  into 
her  face,  and  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  imprinted  a  kiss 
upon  her  brow. 

"  Egad  !  old  Iceberg's  beginning  to  thaw,"  whispered 
Mr.  Nat  into  the  ear  of  Mary  Merton,  for  already  he 
had  begun  to  lose  the  power  of  very  audible  conversa- 
tion. 


252  THE  LANSEYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

'*  I  am  sorry  Sir  Walter,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  we  are 
disappointed  of  Mr.  Merivale.  It  would  have  given  me 
great  pleasure,  though  I  have  not  the  honor  of  knowing 
him  myself,  to  have  been  the  medium  of  an  introduction 
between  such  near  neighbors." 

*'  Not  know  him,  Mr.  Merton  ?  Well,  in  that  case  I 
believe  I  have  the  advantage  of  you.  I  know  him  inti- 
mately." Julia  looked  inquiringly,  but  unobserved,  into 
her  father's  face  when  he  said  this  but  the  features  were 
as  rigid  and  inflexible  as  ever. 

Mr.  Merton  also  must  have  thought  there  was  some- 
thing forbidding  in  his  countenance,  for  he  changed  the 
conversation  as  quickly  as  possible 

''  I  hope  you  can  spare  Julia  to  us  a  few  days  longer," 
said  Mrs.  Merton. 

*'  Your  kindness  to  my  Julia  is  very  great.  We  are 
not  ungrateful  for  it.  But  she  returns  with  me  to-night." 

"  To-night  ?     Oh  I  hope  not." 

"  There  are  circumstances  that  require  her  immedi- 
ate return  to  Lansby  —  to  Springfield  Farm  I  mean  — 
I  sometimes  forget  how  changed  we  are." 

*'  Oh,  not  to-night,  Sir  Walter.  Mr.  Merton  or  Mr. 
Clack  will  be  so  happy  to  drive  her  over  to-morrow." 

*'  There  are  persons  in  this  neighborhood,  madam, 
who  make  it  desirable  that  Miss  Julia  Lansby  should  be 
under  a  father's  eye." 

"  The  cursed  old  Bashaw,"  said  Mr.  Nat,  but  this 
time  to  himself;  "  confound  me,  if  he  doesn't  think  his 
daughter  may  take  a  fancy  to  we."  Mr.  Nat  gave  a  look 
to  the  mirror,  and  pulled  forward  his  wig. 

But  Julia  knew  too  well  the  meaning  of  her  father's 


THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL.  253 

Speech,  With  a  sigh  she  resigned  herself  to  her  fate, 
and  going  to  the  dining-room,  Mary  Merton  thought  she 
saw  the  dark  eyes  of  her  friend  moistened  with  tears. 

What  could  have  been  the  meaning  of  her  father's 
conduct  in  first  forbidding  her  to  think  of  Francis  Lans- 
by,  and  then  in  sending  her  to  Merton  Manor,  for  the 
express  purpose,  as  it  were,  of  throwing  her  in  his  way  ? 
And  why  had  Francis  Lansby  not  come  to  see  his  old 
friends  the  Mertons,  even  if  he  had  had  no  expectation 
of  finding  her  there  ?  These,  and  five  hundred  other 
thoughts,  but  all  coming  to  the  same  hopeless  conclu- 
sion, occupied  her  all  the  time  of  dinner.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  universal  dulness  spread  over  the  party.  Even 
Mr.  Clack  had  very  little  conversation,  and  that  only  in 
a  whisper.  The  liveliest  person  of  the  party  was  Sir 
Walter  Lansby  himself  As  if  in  bravado  of  his  fallen 
fortunes,  he  was  more  cheerful  than  ever  he  had  been 
in  his  palmiest  days.  But  his  daughter,  who  was  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  phases  of  his  character,  saw  that 
his  liveliness  was  assumed,  and  she  dreaded  the  reaction 
which  was  sure  to  follow  so  unnatural  an  effort. 

But  once  the  name  of  Merivale  was  mentioned,  some 
person  casually  inquired  if  there  were  not  a  Devonshire 
family  of  that  name  distantly  connected  with  the 
Lansbys. 

"  There  may  be,  sir,"  replied  Sir  Walter  ;  ''  and  as  a 
person  said  of  his  connections,  the  more  disfant  they 
are  the  better." 

The  rareness  of  an  attempt  at  humor  on  the  ])art  of 
Sir  Walter  Lansby  compensated  for  the  poorness  of  its 
quality.     There  was  a  general  laugh  at  the  reply. 


254  THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

"  Now,  confound  me,"  said  Mr.  Nat  to  his  neighbor, 
"  if  there  is  any  thing  to  laugh  at  in  what  old  Chro- 
nonhoton  has  said.  A  man  who  has  any  reputation  for 
wit  may  say  five  thousand  better  things  every  hour  of 
the  day,  but  really  ^vitticisms  from  some  people  are  so 
common  that  people  take  no  notice  of  them.  But  only 
let  a  dull,  formal,  pedantic  old  blockhead  give  utterance 
to  the  very  oldest  Joe  Miller,  and  the  thing  strikes  peo- 
ple as  a  sort  of  miracle.  The  man  will  die  a  wit  on 
the  reputation  of  a  miserable  story  badly  told." 

The  gentleman  to  whom  Mr.  Nathaniel  addressed 
himself,  was  not  endowed  with  any  superfluity  of  met- 
aphysical acumen  and  looked  most  wonderfully  con- 
tented with  Mr.  Nat's  explanation. 

"  Do  n't  you  think  so?  "  continued  Mr.  Clack. 

"  Think  what,  my  dear  sir  ? '' 

"  Why,  that  the  novelty  or  unexpectedness  is  every 
thing.  You  do  n't  expect  to  see  pigs  play  on  the  fid- 
dle?" 

''No  —  who  the  devil  does  ?  " 

"  Nor  porcupines  to  make  watches  ? " 

''No." 

"  But  if  you  saw  porcupines  making  watches,  or  pigs 
playing  on  fiddles,  you  would  think  it  very  remarkable, 
wouldn't  you? "' 

"  To  be  sure  I  should.'' 

"Ah!"  said  Nat,  quite  triumphant,  "I  was  certain 
you  would  agree  with  me  in  thinking  Sir  Yv^alter's  re- 
joinder a  very  poor  one." 

The  gentleman  looked  at  Nat,  and  wondered  very 
much,  but  said  nothincr. 


THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL.  255 

At  length  the  tedious  night  wore  on,  and,  greatly  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  host  and  hostess,  not  to  mention 
the  now  reanimated  Mr.  Clack,  "  they  walked  alone  the 
banquet  hall  deserted."  Julia  saw  by  her  father's  man- 
ner that  something  very  unusual  had  either  happened  or 
was  about  to  happen.  Her  friend  Mary  Merton  shared 
in  her  apprehensions,  and  has  very  often  mentioned  her 
fears,  after  she  had  heard  of  the  catastrophe  of  that  night. 
Old  Sir  Walter  sat  moodily  silent  beside  his  daughter. 
She,  deeply  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  took  no  no- 
tice of  the  pace  they  were  going  at,  or  even  of  the  car- 
riage in  which  they  were  conveyed.  At  length  her  eye 
caught  the  trees  of  the  short  avenue  that  led  from  the 
road  to  Springfield  farm  ;  but  still  the  carriage  rolled  on. 
She  now  began  to  observe  that  the  chariot  was  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  one  in  which  she  had  made  her  visit  to 
Merton  Manor ;  and  on  looking  round  to  her  father,  for 
every  thing  was  visible  by  the  light  of  a  clear  frosty 
moon,  she  saw  that  he  was  intently  watching  her  coun- 
tenance. 

"  You  don't  ask  me,  Julia,  where  we  are  going,"  he 
said  ;  "  you  see  we  have  passed  the  farm." 

"  I  saw  we  had  passed  it." 

"  And  have  you  no  wish  to  know  where  we  arc 
going  ?  " 

"  Where  ? " 

"  To  the  hall.  Where  should  Sir  Walter  Lansby 
take  his  daughter  to  but  to  Lansby  Hall  ? " 

Julia  half  shrieked  as  he  said  this,  and  now  knew 
that  her  worst  fears  were  realized. 

"  Oh,  not  there  !  "  she  cried,  "  not  there !  " 


25G  THE  LANSBYS  OF  LANSBY  HALL. 

"And  why  not?  Give  me  your  hand,  my  daughter: 
are  you  not  safe  in  the  protection  of  your  father?  " 

"  But  Frank,  —  but  Mr.  Merivale  " — 

*'  I  will  speak  to  him  in  the  house  of  my  ancestors 
as  they  would  wish  me  to  speak." 

The  lodge  at  the  gate  was  fall  of  lights  ;  the  gate 
wide  open,  and  they  rapidly  approached  the  front  door 
of  the  hall.  Julia,  in  an  agony  of  apprehension,  not  di- 
minished by  her  astonishment,  suffered  her  father  to  lead 
her  through  the  vestibule,  up  the  great  staircase,  along 
the  corridor,  and,  opening  the  door  of  the  library,  they 
saw  standing  ready  to  receive  them,  Mr.  Francis  Lansby 
Merivale. 

Julia  leant  trembling  on  her  father's  arm  —  Frank 
stood  as  if  expecting  Sir  Walter  to  begin  the  conversa- 
tion. He  drew  his  daughter  closer  to  him,  paused  for 
a  moment,  then  laying  her  hand  within  that  of  Francis 
Lansby,  said,  —  "  Julia,  your  cousin  —  my  children  !  " 

His  own  agitation  prevented  him  from  seeing  the  ef- 
fect of  his  speech  upon  his  daughter.  "I  told  you, 
Francis  Lansby,  when  I  called  here  in  answer  to  the 
letter  you  had  sent  me,  with  the  documents  restoring 
this  estate  to  me  again,  that  to  accept  it  was  impossible, 
unless  for  the  purpose  of  conveying  it  to  my  child.  My 
pride  is  broken  as  by  a  thunderbolt.  Take  her.  I 
thought  it  was  impossible  for  the  hatred  of  a  Lansby  to 
suffer  decay —  but,  nay,  no  thanks,  your  letter  was  a  just 
reproof  When  the  ceremony  is  over,  I  shall  return  to 
the  farm,  and  find  consolation  in  reflecting  that  the  son 
of  Helen  Trevor  is  the  happy  husband  of  the  daughter 
of  Walter  Lansby." 


S57 


EARLY  DAYS. 

Who,  for  all  that  age  could  bring 
Would  forget  life's  budding  spring? 
Hours  of  frolic  !  school-boy  days ! 
Full  of  merry  pranks  and  plays  ; 
When  the  untaught  spirit  beats 
With  a  thousand  wild  conceits; 
When  each  pleasure,  bright  and  new, 
Sparkles  fresh  with  heavenly  dewj 
When  the  light  that  shines  abroad, 
Seems  the  very  smile  of  God  ; 
Who,  in  after  toil  and  strife. 
Would  forget  the  morn  of  life  ? 

Maturcr  age  brings  riper  thought. 
Fills  with  nobler  hopes  the  mind. 

Seeks  the  truth  by  Prophets  sought, 
Toils  to  benefit  mankind  ;  — 

Yet  who,  mid  all  that  age  can  bring, 

Would  forget  life's  budding  spring  ? 

-s  *  «  -^  * 

New-born  minds,  untouched  by  sin. 

Make  the  earth  seem  holy  ground  ; 
Thus  the  innocence  within 

Sheds  its  light  on  all  around, 
Till  the  hills  and  flowers  and  streams 
Are  woven  o'er  with  golden  dreams. 
How  oft  in  youth  1  wandered  out. 
With  bounding  step  and  merry  shout, 
Running  and  leaping  in  the  sun. 
With  heart  brimful  of  joy  and  fun, 
Till  by  degrees  my  eye  grew  mild, 


258  EARLY    DAYS. 


And  I  became  less  gay  and  wild, 

And  every  thing  by  nature  wrought 

Awakened  me  to  calmer  thought, 

And  my  young  spirit,  unaware. 

Seemed  lifted  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 

How  oft  beneath  the  shadows  dim, 

I  sat  beside  the  fountain's  brim, 

Watching  the  wild-wood  flowers,  which  there 

Breathed  their  sweet  perfume  to  the  air. 

And  saw  each  dew^-bent  blossom  shine 

With  something  of  a  light  divine  ! 

How  oft  I  watched,  with  thoughtful  eye, 
The  clouds  that  slowly  wandered  by. 
Amid  an  atmosphere  of  blue. 
With  pearl  and  rose  and  amber  hue. 
And  felt,  as  thus  they  went  abroad. 
They  were  the  messengers  of  God  ! 

And  when,  upon  the  river's  side, 
I  saw  the  silver  waters  glide  ; 
While  my  school-mate,  half  in  play, 

Watched  the  tranquil  current  flow, 
And  sought  to  draw  the  speckled  prey. 

From  its  native  home  below  ; 
How  often  have  I  felt  the  sight 
Fill  my  whole  being  with  delight. 
While  waves  below  and  clouds  above 
Stirred  my  young  heart  to  holy  love  ! 

^  *  *  Tt  * 

Then  each  scene,  before  me  brought. 
Did  unfold  some  inward  thought ; 
Happy  moments  !     Golden  hours  ! 

Pure  and  blessed  joys  of  youth  ! 
Then  I  felt  those  inward  powers. 

That  now  pant  for  highest  truth  ! 
Not  for  all  that  age  can  bring. 
Would  I  forget  Life's  budding  spring  ! 


•259 


THE  NEAR  SIGHTED  LOYER. 


Those  who  are  born  into  the  world  with  good  eyes, 
who  descry  afar  the  countenances  of  their  friends,  and 
can  distinguish  across  a  church  or  a  theatre,  the  turn  of 
a  feature  or  the  color  of  an  eye,  the  fashion  of  a  head- 
dress or  the  shade  of  a  riband;  —  Happy  mortals  I  how 
I  envy  them ;  little  do  they  know  what  a  gift  they  pos- 
sess, and  scarcely  can  they  imagine  the  utter  wretched- 
ness of  being  near  sighted  ! 

Between  bad  eyes  and  no  eyes  at  all,  those  are  much 
the  most  lucky  who  have  no  eyes  at  all.  A  blind  man 
is  universally  known  and  understood  to  be  blind ;  and 
every  body  makes  allowances  accordingly.  Let  him  be 
ever  so  awkward,  let  him  make  the  most  ridiculous  blun- 
ders possible  ;  —  he  is  blind  ;  he  is  an  object  of  pity  and 
respect ;  and  should  any  one  undertake  to  laugh  at  his 
infirmities,  such  a  violator  of  the  sacred  rights  of  mis- 
fortune would  be  scouted  from  society  with  universal 
execration. 

But  what  pity  was  ever  extended  to  the  awkwardness 
of  the  near-sighted  ?  or  what  pardon  to  their  blunders  ? 
Good  heavens  !  I  would  walk  barefoot,  a  thousand  miles, 
to  kiss  the  latchet  of  that  man's  shoe,  who  has  omitted 
to  laugh,  when  his  near-sighted  friend  has  mistaken  a 
crimson-colored  pincushion  for  a  peach,  or  a  perfect 
stranger  for  an  old  acquaintance.     Such  good  nature  as 


2G0  THE    ISEAR    SIGHTED    LOVER. 

this,  could  it  any  where  be  found,  v/ould,  indeed,  be 
worthy  of  the  humblest  homage.  But  it  is  impossible 
to  find  it.  The  mistakes  of  the  near-sighted  man  are 
considered  ftiir  game;  and  many  a  man,  —  yes,  and 
many  a  woman,  —  who  would  blush  at  the  thought  of 
ridiculing  a  withered  arm  or  a  club  foot,  will  persecute, 
with  the  most  relentless  spirit,  a  poor  near-sighted  wretch 
who,  on  every  rational  principle,  is  as  much  entitled  to 
mercy  as  the  halt  or  the  crippled. 

To  expect  a  man,  whose  circle  of  vision  does  not  ex- 
lend  three  inches  beyond  his  nose,  to  recognize  you  in 
he  streets,  to  find  you  out^  in  the  midst  of  a  crow^ded 
saloon,  to  return  your  nods  at  a  lecture  room  or  a  thea- 
tre, and  to  take  as  much  notice  of  every  thing  that  is 
going  on  about  him,  as  if  his  eyes  were  a  couple  of  tele- 
scopes, is  just  as  unreasonable  as  to  require  a  deaf  man 
to  catch  all  our  whispers,  or  a  man  with  one  leg  to  dance 
a  hornpipe. 

The  men  sin  in  this  respect ;  but  not  half  so  much 
as  the  ladies.  Wilh  all  that  softness,  gentleness  and 
generosity,  which  fill  the  female  bosom  to  overflowing, 
it  is  well  known  how  jealous  is  the  softer  sex  of  any 
thing  that  looks  like  slight  or  neglect.  To  pass  a  lady 
in  the  streets  without  knowing  her,  is  a  sin  of  no  trifling 
magnitude  ;  but  a  sin  which  the  near-sighted  are  always 
committing,  and  which  tliey  are  always  obliged  to  expiate 
by  some  considerable  penance.  Is  a  lady  dressed,  on 
any  occasion,  with  peculiar  taste,  —  and  who  ever  knew 
any  lady,  on  any  occasion,  not  to  be  so  dressed?  —  at 
least,  in  her  own  opinion  ;  —  not  to  notice  and  praise  it, 
13  an  omission,  of  which  no  man  will  be  guilty,  who 


THE    AEAR    SIGHTED    LOVEPw  261 

wishes  to  stand  well  with  his  female  acquaintances.  It 
is  a  safe  rule  to  praise  always;  but  what  risks  does  he 
run,  in  attempting  to  praise,  whose  ej^es  are  so  treacher- 
ous, that  he  can  tell  neither  the  stuif  nor  the  color  of  a 
new  dress,  nor,  indeed,  whether  the  dress  itself  be  an 
old  or  a  new  one  ? 

To  the  grand  misfortune  of  being  near-sighted,  I  may 
justly  ascribe  all  the  miseries  of  my  miserable  life.  They 
are  numerous  enough  to  fill  a  volume,  or,  as  I  ought 
rather  to  say,  —  two  volumes,  as  large  and  as  closely 
printed  as  the  "  Diary  of  a  Physician,"  —  and,  in  point 
of  distress,  —  solid  and  serious  distress,  —  they  outdo 
the  *'  Diary  of  a  Physician"  altogether. 

But  as  I  have  ahvays  held  it  just  and  reasonable,  for 
every  man  to  bear  his  own  burdens,  and  not  to  oppress 
his  neighbors  with  unending  tales  of  suffering  and  sor- 
row, it  is  far  from  my  intention  to  inflict  the  whole  two 
volumes,  at  once,  upon  the  good  nature  of  my  readers. 
I  am  content  to  select  a  single  incident,  —  one  individ- 
ual item  of  the  whole  sum  total  of  my  distress  ;  and  this 
story,  simply  and  sincerely  told,  to  surrender  my  unhap- 
py case  to  the  sympathies  of  my  fellow  creatures  ;  not 
however,  with  the  vain  expectation  of  universal  pity;  — 
for  the  sneerer  must  have  his  sneer,  and  the  jester  his 
joke,  and  the  unfeeling,  —  can  it  be  expected  they  will 
feel?  But  certain  I  am,  that  there  will  be  here  and 
there  one,  —  a  precious  few,  —  a  relict,  a  remnant, 
that,  having  escaped  the  blighting  influences  of  the 
world,  have  still  hearts  to  feel,  and  tears  to  shed. 

It  is,  however,  the  sympathy  of  my  female  friends, 
that  I  particularly  expect ;  —  for  the  tale  I  have  to  tell, 


262 


THE    >EAR    SIGHTED    LOVER. 


is  the  story  of  my  first  love.  All  Love  !  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  mention  thy  name  without  an  apostrophe,  yet 
scarce  do  I  know  in  what  terms  to  speak  of  thee ;  — 
thou  curse  !  —  thou  blessing !  —  source  of  wo,  spring  of 
delight,  origin  of  all  evil,  fountain  of  every  human 
good  !  no,  —  I  will  not  curse  thee.  The  pangs  thou 
raisest  in  the  bosom  of  a  disappointed  lover,  are  worse 
to  bear  than  those  endured  by  him,  famous  in  ancient 
story,  whose  heart  was  torn  by  insatiable  vultures.  But 
once  to  have  known  thy  joys,  —  to  have  been  once  in 
love,  —  actually  in  love,  —  to  have  had  that  love  re- 
turned,—  to  have  known  it;  —  no  matter  how  short  a 
dream  it  proved  ;  —  no  matter  how  soon  dissipated  by 
thy  own  folly  or  the  lady's  fickleness ;  —  it  is  a  sensa- 
tion of  pleasure,  a  draught  of  delight ;  a  rich,  intoxica- 
ting draught,  worth  a  whole  life  of  miserable,  solitary 
selfishness.     But  all  this  is  nothing  to  my  story. 

Emma,  —  for  so  was  the  lady  named,  to  whom  I  made 
the  first  surrender  of  my  heart,  —  was  not  commonly 
reported  beautiful.  But  I  thought  her  so,  and  if  I  was 
mistaken,  —  'tis  a  mistake,  —  and  the  ladies  may  bless 
their  stars  for  it,  —  often  made  by  lovers.  Her  figure 
was  slight  and  elegant,  her  complexion  delicately  pale, 
her  eyes  and  hair  dark,  her  voice  soft  and  musical ;  and 
there  was  a  sweet  smile  playing  from  time  to  time  about 
her  lips,  that  went  directly  to  my  heart.  A  near-sighted 
man,  does  not  descend  much  into  particulars.  He  is 
not  very  likely  to  be  captivated  by  a  pretty  foot  or  a  well 
turned  ancle,  and  a  lady  may  sport  a  delicate  hand  a 
whole  evening,  without  his  once  taking  notice  of  it.  It 
was  not  in  this  way  that  I  was  enslaved ;  —  nor  yet  by 


TH£    NEAR    SIGHTED    LOVER,  263 

any  one  of  the  attractions  above  enumerated,  nor  by  the 
union  of  them  all.  A  near-sighted  man  is  not  very 
likely  to  be  the  victim  of  mere  personal  charms,  —  he 
is  almost  certain  not  to  fall  in  love  at  first  sight,  —  be- 
cause, at  first  sight  he  scarcely  sees  any  thing  at  all, 
nothing  at  least,  definitely  and  distinctly ;  and  though 
obscurity  favors  the  sublime,  it  is  otherwise  with  the 
beautiful.  For  my  part,  all  ladies,  the  first  time  I  see 
them,  look  very  much  alike;  some  I  observe,  are  tall, 
and  some  short ;  some  are  blondes,  and  some  brunettes ; 
—  this  is  about  all  that  I  discover  the  first  evening. 

And  this  leads  me  to  observe,  that  near-sighted  lovers 
are  always  the  most  serious,  sincere  and  sentimental. 
They  find  out  how  a  lady  talks,  as  soon  as,  —  or  sooner 
than,  —  how  she  looks ;  and  as  their  passions  are  not 
founded  exclusively  on  the  lady's  beauty,  —  though  beau- 
ty has  power,  it  must  be  confessed,  to  charm  near-sight- 
edness itself;  —  there  is  commonly  more  sympathy  of 
mind  in  their  attachments,  than  in  those  of  their  neigh- 
bors, who  see  more,  but  observe  less. 

However  this  may  be,  my  love  for  Emma  was  serious 
and  sentimental  enough.  I  worshipped  her ;  I  adored 
her.  One  word,  one  look  from  her,  surpassed,  in  my 
esteem,  all  the  other  pleasures  of  existence.  My  life 
seemed  to  depend  on  the  continuance  of  her  afiection. 
I  have  learnt  better  since,  —  I  have  learnt  not  to  fall  in 
love  so  very  deeply.  There  should  be  a  moderation  in 
every  thing;  such  passionate  devotion  is  not  due  to  poor 
humanity ;  it  results,  inevitably,  in  disappointment ;  it 
overstrains  and  destroys  the  sympathies  of  the  soul,  and 
ends  in  misanthropy,  if  not  in  idiotism.     Love  is  like 


2G4  THE    NEAR    SIGHTED    LOVER. 

brandy,  too  powerful  to  be  taken  pure ;  to  be  indulged 
in  with  safety,  it  needs  to  be  much  diluted. 

Emma  had  been  absent  from  town  about  a  week,  and 
that  very  morning,  —  the  morning  of  that  Wednesday, 
which,  ever  since,  has  borne  a  black  mark  in  my  calen- 
dar, I  had  received  a  letter  from  her,  full  of  fondness 
and  affection,  informing  me  that  she  did  not  intend  to 
return  for  a  week  to  come.  Since  our  enoacrement,  I 
had  neglected  almost  all  my  former  acquaintances, — 
I  had  been  devoted  exclusively,  to  the  dear  Emma's  ser- 
vice. If,  however,  I  was  guilty  of  rudeness  toAvards  my 
former  friends,  it  was  not  wholly  my  fault;  for  ever 
since  my  engagement  had  become  public,  my  female  ac- 
quaintances had  treated  me  w^ith  a  cool  nonchalance, 
sufficient  to  have  abashed  a  man  much  less  sensitive  than 
myself.  While  Emma  was  away,  I  passed  my  evenings 
at  the  theatre ;  —  it  was  several  years  ago,  before  the 
theatre  had  become  so  unfashionable  as  it  is  at  present. 

That  very  Wednesday  evening,  to  the  theatre  I  went, 
with  Emma's  letter  in  my  pocket. 

Love  is  said  to  be  quick-sighted ;  and  I  was  delighted 
to  find  that  it  added  some  quickness,  even  to  such  eyes 
.asmine.  I  had  observed,  with  no  little  pleasure,  that  I 
could  distinguish  Emma  at  a  much  greater  distance  than 
any  body  else.  I  entered  the  theatre  about  the  middle 
of  the  first  act;  the  boxes  were  crowded;  but  judge  my 
pleasure  and  surprise,  when  at  no  great  distance  from 
me,  I  saw  the  dear  Emma  herself.  She  was  surround- 
ed by  two  or  three  ladies,  and  as  many  gentlemen,  whom 
I  could  not  distinguish  at  all ;  but  her  own  features  I 
could  trace  distinctly  ;  and  I  saw,  from  time  to  time,  or 


THE    NEAR    SIGHTED    LOVER,  265 

thought  I  saw,  that  sweet,  peculiar  smile,  so  exclusively 
her  own.  I  tried  to  catch  her  eye  ;  but  as  I  was  farthest 
from  the  stage,  and  she  seemed  intent  upon  the  play,  it 
was  impossible.  My  heart  boiled  over  with  impatience  ; 
but  as  I  have  the  greatest  antipathy  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  a  crowd,  and  as  the  house  was  so  full  that  no 
one  could  move  without  making  a  disturbance,  I  waited, 
however  reluctantly,  till  the  act  was  finished. 

The  curtain  had  hardly  begun  to  fall,  before  I  was  in 
the  lobby  ;  and,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  the  people 
in  the  box  next  to  Emma's  made  a  move  at  the  same 
time.  They  left  their  box  half  empty  ;  I  pushed  in  ; 
and,  as  Emma  sat  on  the  middle  seat  of  the  next  box, 
between  two  other  ladies,  I  stood  close  beside  her. 
Still,  she  did  not  observe  me.  A  sudden  thought  came 
over  my  mind  that  the  dress  she  wore  was  not  exactly 
in  her  usual  good  taste  ;  the  ladies  with  her,  I  did  not 
know  at  all,  —  nor  did  I  half  like  their  looks;  but  set- 
ting them  down  for  some  country  cousins  of  Emma's, 
I  leaned  over  the  box,  and  whispered  a  cadence  in 
Emma's  ear.  She  started,  as  suddenly  as  I  had  expect- 
ed ;  but  the  look  she  gave  me  was  one  such  as  I  certain- 
ly did  not  expect.  Her  face  was  covered  with  blushes, 
and  seemed  to  indicate  a  strange  confusion.  I  stood 
hesitating,  when,  all  at  once,  the  truth  burst  upon  me, 
—  that  the  lady  I  had  spoken  to  was  not  Emma, —  but 
somebody,  to  be  sure,  very  much  like  her.  The  flutter- 
ing of  the  ladies  drew  the  attention  of  a  gentleman  be- 
hind them,  who  seemed  to  be  a  brother,  or  something  of 
the  sort ;  and  I  had  nothing  else  to  do,  after  asking  the 
lady's  pardon  for  my  intrusion,  than  to  beckon  the  broth- 
v  ' 


266  THE    NEAR    SIGHTED    LOVER. 

er  aforesaid,  into  the  lobby, —  tell  him  I  was  near-sight- 
ed,—  that  I  had  mistaken  the  lady  under  his  protection 
for  a  j3Lirticular  friend  of  mine,  and  so  explained  the 
matter  the  best  way  I  coald. 

I  immediately  left  the  house,  inwardly  resolving  never 
to  enter  it  again  ;  and  cursing  the  eyes  that  had  so  griev_ 
ously  deceived  me. 

Yet  what  is  a  resolution,  the  fruit  of  a  sudden  excite- 
ment, against  the  calm,  but  powerful  influence  of  habit? 
I  had  now  been  at  the  theatre  every  night,  for  a  week 
past;  and  when  evening  came,  without  once  thinking 
of  the  resolution  so  seriously  formed  the  night  before, 
I  walked  into  the  house,  and  took  my  seat  as  usual. 
The  house  was  not  so  full  as  it  had  been  on  the  previ- 
ous evening ;  but  som.e  of  the  same  company  was  pres- 
ent. For,  as  I  cast  ray  eye  along  the  boxes,  I  observed 
at  a  distance,  that  same  identical  lady  on  whose  account, 
the  last  night,  I  had  made  myself  so  ridiculous.  I  thought 
she  looked  at  me  as  though  she  meant  to  knov*'  me ;  I 
bowed  very  gravely,  and  turned  my  head  the  other  way. 
The  play  happened  to  be  a  favorite  of  mine,  and  I  was 
all  attention  to  it.  After  the  performances  were  over, 
.as  I  vras  sauntering  leisurely  liomeward,  I  was  over- 
taken by  Ned  Murrowday,  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  who 
took  me  by  the  arm,  and  congratulated  me  on  Emma's 
return.  "  Emma  returned  ?  "  said  I,  "  why  no,  't  is  im- 
possible, I  have  a  letter  of  her's  in  my  pocket,  in  which 
she  tells  me  I  must  wait  a  week  longer."  "  Don't  put 
too  much  confidence  in  a  lady's  letter,"  said  my  friend, 
"  whatever  she  has  written,  she  has  certainly  returned  ; 
as  I  passed  by  the  theatre  I  met  her  coming  out  of  it, 


THE    NEAR    SIGHTED    LOVER.  2(37 

and  what  is  more,"  he  added  in  a  whisper,  "  she  was 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  very  spruce  young  man,  a  lieu- 
tenant in  the  navy,  I  believe.  Have  a  care  my  friend! 
—  have  a  care  !  " 

With  these  v/ords,  he  turned  down  another  street,  and 
left  me  to  my  own  meditations.  What  kind  they  were, 
the  reader  may  easily  imagine.  That  I  should  have 
passed  the  whole  evening,  so  near  my  Emma,  and  not 
have  known  her !  and  when  she  tried  to  attract  my  at- 
tention, to  have  repulsed  her  with  a  distant  nod,  —  Oh  ! 
'twas  too  cruel,  —  'twas  insufferable.  There  was  no 
spice  of  jealousy  in  my  composition,  and  the  young 
lieutenant  never  once  entered  my  thoughts;  but  I  was 
kept  awake  the  whole  night,  thinking  how  Emma  must 
have  thought  of  me.  The  next  morning,  at  the  earliest 
possible  hour,  I  waited  upon  her,  —  but  she  refused  to 
see  me.  I  sent  up  more  than  once  to  renew  my  request, 
but  she  proved  inexorable.  I  returned  home,  sat  down, 
and  wrote  the  best  explanation  of  my  unlucky  blunder, 
that  my  haste  and  perturbation  would  permit,  and  des- 
patched it  immediately.  It  was  som.e  time  before  I  re- 
ceived an  answer  ;  and  when  it  came  it  was  fatal  to  all 
my  hopes.  Emma's  note  was  very  civil ;  she  pitied  my 
unfortunate  infirmity,  —  she  was  quite  satisfied  with  my 
explanation,  —  but  circumstances,  she  said,  which  had 
grown  out  of  that  evening  at  the  theatre,  had  made  it 
necessary  to  return  all  my  letters,  and  to  inform  me  that 
henceforth,  we  could  be  nothing  to  each  other  but  com- 
mon acquaintances.  She  concluded  with  assurances  of 
everlasting  friendship,  and  sincere  esteem.  At  first,  I 
hardly  knew  how  to  take  this  letter,  but  my  doubts  M-ere 


26S  THE    KEAR    SIGHTED    I. OVER, 

soon  relieved.  A  half-a-dozen  good-natured  friends  of 
mine  came  running  in,  with  all  the  particulars.  Emma, 
it  seems,  as  she  was  returning  from  the  theatre,  had  en- 
deavored to  assuage  her  sorrows,  by  opening  her  heart 
to  the  young  lieutenant,  who  attended  her.  He  saw  his 
advantage,  and  used  it.  A  lady's  heart,  when  softened 
by  grief,  is  easily  moulded.  He  succeeded  in  convinc- 
ing her,  that  my  coldness  and  neglect  must  have  been 
intentional ;  that,  at  any  rate,  such  purblind  stupidity, 
if  it  were  nothing  worse,  was  totally  unpardonable;  and 
he  gave  her  to  understand  that  if  she  had  lost  one  lover, 
another  might  easily  be  found.  The  night  was  pleasant 
and  their  walk  was  prolonged.  My  fate  was  sealed  that 
very  evening ;  and  when  my  explanation  came,  it  came 
too  late. 


209 


THE  HONEST  MILLER. 

Of  all  the  callings  and  the  trades 

Which  in  our  land  abound, 
The  miller's  is  as  useful  sure 

As  can  on  earth  be  found. 
For  vain,  without  the  miller's  aid, 

The  sowing  and  the  dressing  j 
Then  sure  an  honest  miller  he 

Must  be  a  public  blessing. 
And  such  a  miller  now  I  make 

The  subject  of  my  song, 
Which,  though  it  shall  be  very  true, 

Shall  not  be  very  long. 
This  miller  lives  in  Glo'stershire, 

I  shall  not  tell  his  name  ; 
For  those  who  seek  the  praise  of  God, 

Desire  no  other  fame. 
In  last  hard  winter  —  who  forgets 

The  frost  of  ninety-five  ? 
Then  Vv-as  all  dismal  scarce,  and  dear, 

And  no  poor  man  could  thrive. 
Then  husbandry  long  time  stood  still. 

And  work  was  at  a  stand  ; 
To  make  the  matter  worse,  the  mills 

Were  froze  throughout  the  land. 
Our  miller  dwelt  beside  a  stream, 

All  underneath  the  hill ; 
Which  flowed  amain  when  others  froze. 

Nor  ever  stopped  the  mill. 
The  clam'rous  people  came  from  far 

This  favored  mill  to  find, 


270  THE    HONEST    MILLER, 

Both  rich  and  poor  our  miller  sought, 

For  none  but  he  could  grind. 
His  neighbors  cried,  '  Now  miller  seize 

Tiie  time  to  heap  up  store, 
Since  thou  of  3^oung  and  helpless  babes 

Hast  got  full  half  a  score.' 
For  folks,  when  tempted  to  grow  rich, 

By  means  not  over  nice, 
Oft  make  their  numerous  babes  a  plea 

To  sanctify  the  vice. 
Our  miller  scorned  such  counsel  base, 

And  when  he  ground  the  grain. 
With  steadfast  hand  refused  to  touch 

Beyond  his  lawful  gain. 
'  When  God  afflicts  the  land,'  said  he, 

'  Shall  I  afflict  it  more  ? 
And  watch  for  times  of  public  wo 

To  wrong  both  rich  and  poor  ? 
Thankful  to  that  Almighty  Power 

Who  makes  my  river  flow, 
I  '11  use  the  means  he  gives  to  sooth 

A  hungry  neighbor's  wo. 
My  river  flows  when  others  freeze, 

But  't  is  at  His  command  ; 
For  rich  and  poor  I  '11  grind  alike, 

No  bribe  shall  stain  my  hand.' 
So  all  the  countr}-  who  had  corn 

Here  found  their  wants  redrest; 
May  every  village  in  the  land 

Be  with  such  millers  blest ! 


271 


THE  WEARY  WATCHER. 


'T  IS  not  the  hour  her  lover  named, 
Yet  she  already  deems  him  late  ; 

And  pouts  her  lip,  as  if  ashamed 

That  mortal  man  should  make  her  wait. 

She  turns  the  pages  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  seems  unconscious  of  Time's  flight; 

She  vows  she  '11  watch  the  path  no  more 
Where  first  his  form  will  be  in  sight. 

And  were  she  summoned  by  his  voice, 
She  would  not  turn  her  head  to  greet  him 

Come  when  ho  may,  she  will  rejoice 
To  show  how  coldly  she  can  meet  him  ! 

She  will  not  frown,  for  frowns  would  say 
That  she  had  watched  for  his  return  ; 

She  will  not  smile,  —  it  would  betray 
She  saw  him  not  with  unconcern. 

Oh  !  should  he  ever  come,  no  trace 
Of  weak  emotion  shall  appear ; 

She  '11  seem,  while  gazing  on  his  face, 
Unconscious  that  he  stands  so  near. 

No  blush  shall  mantle  on  her  cheek, 
No  tear  shall  tremble  in  her  eye  ; 

To  some  young  stranger  she  v/ill  speak, 
And  seom  engrossed  by  his  reply. 


272 


THE    WEARY    WATCHER. 


And  thinking  thus,  she  proudly  leans 

Over  the  pages  of  her  book  ; 
Come  when  he  may,  she  never  means 

To  raise  her  head  or  grant  one  look  ! 

Lady,  most  beautiful  thou  art. 

And  pride  becomes  thee  mid  the  crowd  ; 
But  oh  !  with  him  who  wins  thy  heart, 

Thou  'rt  fond,  —  weak,  —  any  thing  but  proud 

Resentment  when  he  leaves  her  side 
Betrays  the  depth  of  woman's  love  ; 

And  when  she  prattles  of  her  pride. 

What  but  her  weakness  doth  she  prove  ? 

Why  starts  she  now  ?  why  turn  her  head 
With  such  a  glance  of  gay  delight  ? 

Alas  !  forgetting  all  she  said. 

She  smiles  the  moment  he  's  in  sight ! 


The  Weary  Watcher  can  command 
No  word  to  wound,  no  frown  to  chill ; 

The  silent  pressure  of  her  hand 
Assures  him  he  is  welcome  still. 


S73 


A  LEGEND  OF  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


"  I  SHALL  tell  you 
A  prosing  tale  ;  it  may  be  you  have  heard  it; 
But  since  it  serves  my  purpose,  I  will  venture 
To  scale  't  a  little  more."  ....  Coriolanus. 


The  conjurer  sat  at  his  books.  The  various  utensils 
of  his  art  were  scattered  around  liim, —  a  horoscope, 
globe,  astrolabe  and  quadrant,  and  huge  volumes  of  mys- 
terious characters  in  an  unknown  tongue.  He  was  an 
adept  in  the  black  art,  shrewdly  conversant  with  what- 
ever might  excite  the  superstition  of  the  credulous,  and 
usually  made  his  calculations  with  a  sagacity  that  baf- 
fled detection.  The  old  man  was  poring  over  one  of 
these  tomes,  when  he  raised  his  keen  gray  eye  from  the 
volume  as  the  door  opened,  and  a  stranger  presented 
himself  He  was  of  small  stature,  attired  in  a  rustic 
drab  ;  his  visage  thin  and  wrinkled,  an<l  his  little  black 
eyes  hardly  separated  by  an  attenuated  apology  for  a 
nose.  The  intruder  stood  silent  for  a  few  moments,  as 
if  hesitating  how  to  address  the  man  of  forbidden  knowl- 
edge. 

"  He  that  would  consult  the  stars,"  said  the  conjurer, 
"  must  view  them  in  a  mirror  of  silver ;  the  book  of  fate 
is  sealed  to  him  who  comes  empty-handed." 

At  this  hint  the  stranger  drew  from  his  pocket  a  well- 
worn  purse  of  heart-case,  and  fingering  the  contents  of 


271  A    LEGE.\D    OF    CHRISTiMAS    EVE. 

tlie  bag,  desposited  a  few  small  coins  in  the  palm  of  the 
conjurer. 

*'  I  would  know,"  said  he,  "  if  there  is  money  buried 
on  the  great  island  down  the  river  ?  " 

lie  of  the  horoscope  opened  one  of  the  huge  volumes 
of  mystery,  and  began  slov/ly  turning  the  leaves  with 
great  care.  Apparently  unsatisfied,  he  handled  the  as- 
trolabe for  a  few  moments,  and  at  length  fell  to  figuring 
with  earnestness. 

"  There  is  gold  there  which  may  not  be  touched  by 
mortal  hands,"  said  he,  suspending  his  calculations;  "  it 
is  the  charmed  treasure  of  the  pirate." 

"  I  dreamed  it, —  I  dreamed  it !  "  said  the  visiter,  lean- 
ing towards  the  table  and  casting  a  furtive  glance  at  the 
talisman  ;  "  but  is  there  no  way, —  have  you  not  power 
to  disenchant  it  ?  —  where  is  it  buried  ? " 

The  geomancer  drew  his  wand  over  a  cycle  inscribed 
with  the  characters  of  the  heavens,  and  again  turned 
the  leaves  of  the  mysterious  volume.  At  length  he  be- 
o-;in  muttering, — "  Seventeen  hundred  and —  Saturn  as- 
cendant,—  Arcturus  glares  like  a  cresset,  and  Bootes  is 
grim  with  blood.  Enough  I — there  was  murder  when 
the  chest  was  buried  and  the  spirit  of  the  dead  watches 
the  gold." 

There  was  a  convulsive  movement  in  the  features  of 
the  stranger,  and  his  little  black  eyes  for  a  moment 
(deamed  with  an  expression  of  horror.  It  soon  gave 
way  to  the  all  absorbing  passion  of  his  being. 

"  But  where  is  it  buried  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  On  the  south  end  of  the  island.  Some  rods  from 
the  water  stands  an  old  elm  alone.    On  the  fifteenth  day 


A    LEGEND    OF    CHRISTMAS    EVE. 


Q7n 


of  the  moon,  at  midnight,  its  shadow  will  fall  directly  on 
the  iron  chest.  Measure  five  paces  from  the  roots,  and 
at  the  shadow  of  the  junction  of  a  great  western  limb 
with  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  dig  for  your  life.  You  will 
see  and  hear  what  might  appal  a  bolder  man, —  but 
speak  never  a  word.  The  moment  a  human  voice  is 
heard,  the  spell  is  broken.  If  you  succeed,  there  is 
enough  to  make  you  a  nabob." 

Another  tribute  was  levied  on  the  purse  of  the  visiter, 
who  took  leave  in  the  confidence  of  success. 

There  was  a  belief  prevalent  at  that  time,  among 
many  of  the  good  people  of  New-England,  that  the  no- 
ted Kidd  had  in  one  of  his  cruises  ascended  the  Con- 
necticut, and  buried  on  its  numerous  islands,  immense 
treasures  of  his  hoarded  booty.  This  belief  was  strength- 
ened by  the  confession  of  an  old  African,  who  declared, 
on  his  death-bed,  that  he  had  been  employed  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  cook  on  board  the  piratical  vessel ;  and  whose 
incoherent  answers  to  the  eager  interrogations  of  those 
who  shrived  him,  confirmed  sundry  dark  hints,  he  had 
thrown  out  previously.  lie  even  pointed  out  this  island 
in  question,  as  the  repository  of  the  treasures  of  a  Span- 
ish galleon  he  had  seen  plundered  and  burned;  but 
whispered,  with  a  shudder,  that  the  deposite  was  guard- 
ed by  the  ghost  of  the  butchered  boatswain.  The  ef- 
fects of  this  story  on  those  who  hasted  to  be  rich   were 

astonishing. 

"  Not  a  soul 
But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad." 

Many  were  the  adventurers  who  haunted  this  new  El 
Dorado,  and  fearful  were  the  perils  they  were  reported 


276  A    LEGEND    OF    CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

to  have  encountered  in  their  search  for  the  unhallowed 
hoard.  The  substance  of  the  present  legend  formed  the 
subject  of  a  fire-side  tale,  which  the  writer  in  his  boy- 
hood heard  of  a  long  winter  evening  recounted  by  the 
identical  hero  of  the  adventure,  and  who  was  intro- 
duced to  the  reader  in  his  interview  with  the  conjurer. 
The  latter  was  none  other  than  the  celebrated  necroman- 
cer, Ballou ;  and  the  old  gentleman  never  concluded 
the  story,  without  remarking,  with  great  solemnity,  that 
shortly  after  this  event,  he  of  the  fcuniliar  spirit  died 
suddenly  in  his  bed,  agreeably  to  a  prediction  of  his  own 
when  apparently  in  perfect  health,  not  six  hours  pre- 
vious. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  our  hero  returned  home  with  the 
bewildered  feelings  of  one  who  has  suddenly  drawn  a 
capital  prize.  The  almanac  was  daily  consulted  with  the 
eagerness  of  one  who  would  fain  move  forward  the 
shadow  on  the  dial ;  and  the  long  w'eary  days,  which  in- 
tervened before  the  appointed  time,  were  eked  out  in 
the  sickness  of  hope  deferred.  He  would  occasionally 
kill  a  lingering  hour  by  projecting  princely  improve- 
ments on  his  little  farm,  which  lay  meanwhile  like  the 
garden  of  the  sluggard;  the  conjurer's  talisman,  like 
the  wand  of  Prospero,  seemed  at  a  stroke  to  have  con- 
verted his  humble  tenement  into  the  dwelling  of  a  prince, 
and  air-castles  swam  before  his  heated  imagination  in 
all  the  gorgeousness  of  romance.  But  it  was  in  his 
dreams,  which  "  spoke  like  Sybils  of  the  future,"  that 
he  revelled  in  the  full  fruition  of  a  more  than  oriental 
sumptuousness, —  a  boundlessness  of  wealth  that  would 
have  beggared  the  kings  of  the  genii.     Chests  of  gold 


A    LEGEND    OF    CHRISTMAS    EVE.  2// 

and  silver,  mines  of  caverned  riches,  avalanches  of  jew- 
els tumbling  around  him,  gnomes  and  goblins,  a  whole 
cosmorama  of  Sinbad  fantasies  mocked  his  slumbers, 
till  the  good  woman  at  his  side,  in  innocent  ignorance 
of  the  latter  day  glory  that  awaited  her,  deemed  him,  as 
he  lay  tossing  around,  the  prey  of  some  fearful,  damn- 
ing secret.  He  had  as  yet  lisped  the  revelation  in  no 
mortal  ear,  sensible  as  he  was  that  a  participation  in  the 
hazard  of  the  adventure  would  induce  a  participation  in 
the  spoil.  Besides,  his  mind  had  hitherto  been  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  disposal  of  the  anticipated  prize,  that  he 
had  scarcely  bestowed  a  thought  on  the  means  by  which 
it  was  to  be  obtained.  But  as  the  day  drew^  nigh,  difficul- 
ties began  to  present  themselves,  which  filled  him  with 
misgivings.  His  unassisted  efforts  might  prove  insuffi- 
cient for  the  removal  of  the  ponderous  treasure  ;  and  he 
could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  a  companion  of  flesh 
and  blood  would,  to  say  the  least,  be  very  convenient  in 
an  adventure  which  might  call  for  the  interposition  of 
an  incorporeal  agency.  Gladly  would  he  have  availed 
himself  of  the  co-operation  of  the  partner  of  his  wordly 
thrift ;  but  the  injunction  of  the  conjurer  that  not  a 
word  should  be  spoken, — alack  !  "  Ichabod  "  was  writ- 
ten on  the  very  face  of  it.  From  this  dilemma  we  leave 
the  good  man  to  extricate  himself;  premising  at  the  same 
time  that  his  nearest  neighbor  was  an  elderly  bachelor 
brother,  whose  heir  presumptive  he  flattered  himself  to 
be  ;  and  who,  in  case  of  his  enlisting  his  services,  would 
still,  as  the  snying  is,  retain  the  property  in  the  family. 

It  was  now  the  green  depth  of  summer,  and  the  broad 
banks  and  meadows  of  Connecticut  were  teeming  with 


J 


978  A    LEGEND    OF    CHRISTIMAS    EVE. 

the  luxuriance  of  vegetation.  As  yet,  steam-boats  were 
in  the  womb  of  futurity,  and  the  light  water-craft  with 
which  the  followers  of  the  adventurous  Ledyard  naviga- 
ted this  beautiful  river,  had  but  recently  given  place  to 
the  lum.bering  batteau  of  the  merchant.  Ever  and  anon 
as  its  huge  sail  hung  lazily  flapping  over  the  dark  waters, 
the  rude  song  of  the  boatman  might  be  heard  as  he 
wrought  at  the  oar,  swelling  out  among  the  numerous 
coves  and  inlets  which  bordered  its  margin,  or  answer- 
ed in  echoes,  faintly  multiplied  among  the  mountains 
beyond.  Even  this  was  of  so  rare  occurrence  as  to  at- 
tract attention  ;  and  the  honest  rustic  on  the  banks,  as 
it  swept  along,  would  lean  for  a  moment  on  the  imple- 
ment of  his  labor,  to  dream  of  distant  voyages,  ship- 
wrecks, and  the  perils  of  the  water.  The  shout  and 
merry  laugh  of  childhood  were  heard  among  the  cluster- 
ing elms  that  bordered  the  stream ;  and  the  pattering  of 
little  feet  came  across  the  water  from  the  smooth  line  of 
beaten  sand  along  its  margin.  But  there  was  one  who 
gazed  on  all  this  with  a  vacant  eye, —  he  was  revelling 
in  the  immateriality  of  a  world  of  his  own  creation. 
He  called  to  a  little  urchin  Avho  was  clambering  the 
thick  vines  with  a  group  of  his  fellows,  and  muttered, 
as  he  parted  the  flaxen  curls  fi-om  his  forehead,  "  to- 
morrow —  and  the  young  rogue  will  be  the  son  of  a  na- 
bob." 

It  was  late  in  the  brilliant  evening  ensuing,  that  a 
small  boat  might  be  seen  to  push  from  the  shore,  and 
shoot  noiselessly  across  the  river  in  the  direction  of  the 
isl;md.  The  moon  was  near  her  zenith,  and  along  lino 
of  light  gleamed  across  the   water,  broken  only  by  the 


A    LEGEND    OF    CHRISTMAS    EVE.  279 

ripples  that  circled  around  the  stern  of  the  little  craft, 
or  followed  dancing  in  her  wake.  Approaching  the  isl- 
and, it  drew  up  in  the  shadow  of  a  small  cove,  and  two 
dark  forms  stepped  on  shore  ;  landing  a  spade,  mattock, 
and  bar,  and  an  old  queen's  arms,  which  might  have 
been  loaded  with  a  silver  bullet.  Making  the  boat  fast, 
they  cautiously  ascended  the  bank,  and  deposited  their 
implements  at  the  foot  of  an  old  elm,  which  threw  the 
shadow  of  its  spreading  branches  far  around  over  the 
smooth  sod.  The  younger  of  the  men  appeared  by  far 
the  most  active,  alternately  consulting  an  old  time-piece 
which  he  continually  drew  from  his  pocket  in  anxious 
restlessness,  and  throw^ing  fearful  glances  among  the 
bosky  thickets  at  hand,  which  lay  motionless  as  death. 
The  lonely  stillness  of  this  wild  spot  at  this  "witching 
time  of  night,"  the  air  of  mystery  thrown  over  their  con- 
versation, vvhich,  like  the  mutes  of  an  eastern  seraglio, 
they  carried  on  only  by  signs,  were  all  befitting  some  un- 
holy deed,  while 

"  The  setting  of  the  eye  and  cheek,  proclaimed 
A  matter  from  them," 

At  length,  measuring  a  few  paces  from  the  tree,  and 
once  more  eyeing  all  around  with  cautious  scrutiny, 
they  commenced  digging  in  its  shadow.  At  this  mo- 
ment an  object  appeared  rounding  an  angle  of  the  shore 
below,  and  in  an  instant  a  vessel  of  war  under  full  sail 
rushed  by  the  island.  Not  a  soul  was  discoverable  on 
the  deck  of  the  phantom  ship,  but  ever  and  anon,  as  it 
boomed  sullenly  onward,  loud  shrieks  and  the  crash  of 


280  A    LEGEND    OF    CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

swords  came  mingling  with  shouts  of  demoniac  laugh- 
ter, the  losel  song  of  carousal,  and  the  fierce  oaths  of 
the  bucanier.  The  money  digger  rested  on  his  spade, 
and  passed  his  hand  athwart  his  eyes  to  convince  him- 
self of  the  reality  of  the  vision  ;  —  all  had  vanished,  and 
he  saw  only  the  brazen  clasps  of  the  family  bible  glit- 
tering in  the  moon-beams,  which  his  companion  was 
hugging  in  an  agony  of  terror.  A  breathless  pause 
ensued,  while  their  hearts  palpitated  in  audible  throbs. 
Anon,  as  they  resumed  their  labors,  a  whale-boat  ap- 
peared slowly  bearing  down  on  the  island  without  sail 
or  oar.  Not  a  voice  or  sound  was  heard  from  that 
shadowy  crew, —  the  headless  helmsman  stood  at  his  post 
with  the  fixedness  of  a  corse,  and  his  companions  were 
ranged  along  the  bows,  with  the  blood  still  spouting  from 
each  ghastly  trunk.  At  this  m^oment  the  elder  of  the 
worthies  sunk  his  bar  in  the  sand,  and  struck  the  lid  of 
the  iron  treasure  chest  with  a  jar.  The  presence  of 
mind,  which  had  bridled  his  tongue  in  spite  of  the  de- 
mon visitations,  now  forsook  him  in  the  moment  of  suc- 
cess. "  There  it  is,  by  heaven  !  "  he  exclaimed,  leap- 
ing up  in  an  ecstacy.  "  And  there  it  is  !  "  screamed 
the  other,  hurling  his  mattock  full  at  his  brother's  head 
in  the  frenzy  of  one  whose  hopes  are  blasted  at  a  breath. 
There  was  a  low  rumbling  beneath  their  feet,  and 
the  ponderous  mass  passed  slowly  from  under  them  as 
the  spectral  boat  gradually  melted  into  moonlight. 


281 


MY  FATHER'S  HOUSE. 

No  circling  hills  may  sweeping  form 

A  boundary  for  thee  ; 
Nor  woods,  defying  lime  and  storm, 

Thy  ramparts  proudly  be  : 
Nor  winding  waters  amply  stream, 
Fair  as  the  wrapt  enthusiast's  dream, 
Steal  through  thy  sun-bright  vales. 

The  crowded  mart,  the  noisy  street. 

The  busy  hum  of  men  — 
A  scene  where  things  familiar  meet. 

Unknown  of  poet's  pen  ; 
These  may  be  thine  —  unhallow'd,  rude, 
And  thine  a  "  peopled  solitude," 
Ungenial  and  unloved. 

And  yet  no  sun-bright  valley  fair, 
No  mountain-screen'd  domain. 

No  glen,  or  grove,  or  waters  clear. 
Can  bind  in  strong  link'd  chain, 

The  heart  as  thou,  amid  the  din. 

The  chaos  from  without,  within. 
And  lost  to  Nature's  charms 

'T  is  thine  to  whisper  to  the  heart, 

Of  childhood's  happy  dawn. 
Of  joys  that  with  our  youth  depart. 

Of  Love's  bewiy^hing  morn  ; 
And  thine  to  speak  of  playmates  fled, 
Of  friends  removed,  estranged,  or  dead - 
A  wild  and  spectral  train. 


282  MY  father's  house. 

And  thine  to  'wake  the  voice  of  Love, 

Long  silent  in  the  tomb  ; 
Of  parent  love  !  —  pure  as  above, 

The  love  in  worlds  to  come  ! 
And  thou,  the  scene  of  births  and  death, 
Of  burial,  and  of  bridal,  hast 

A  voice,  none  else  may  claim. 

Oh  !  many  are  the  storms  that  roll 
Their  waters  o  'er  the  mind  — 

Many  the  waves  that  threat  the  soul 
By  this  world's  griefs  refined. 

To  bury  in  their  depths  profound. 

Association's  hallow  'd  mound, 

Thoughts,  recollections  fond ; 

Yet,  in  the  might  of  love  sublime, 
One  spot  undimm'd  appears  — 

One  consecrated  spot  —  no  time 
From  Memory's  tablet  tears  ; 

My  father's  house  !  shrine  of  the  best, 

And  holiest  earthly  love,  confess'd, 
Affection's  dearest  home. 

Guilt  may  have  sear'd,  ill  fortune  worn. 

The  sympathies  away  ; 
Yet  will  remembrance  fondly  turn, 

And  own  the  boundless  sway 
Of  parent  love  !  —  the  while  will  be 
The  heart's  unsullied  sanctuary, 
A  father's  house  confess'd. 

Fairer,  a  thousand  times  more  fair, 
May  show  full  many  a  scene, 

Than  that  which  gave  us  birth  ;  but  there, 
Oh,  there  's  one  spot  green  ! 

The  Oasis  of  the  desert  waste. 

With  more  than  scenic  beauty  graced, 
Impervious  to  decay. 


983 


ROMANCE  IN  REAL  LIFE. 


A    SPANISH    STORY. 


Don  Cayetano  Balboa,  a  respectable  and  wealthy 
merchant  of  Eucija,  in  Andalusia,  had  an  only  son, 
named  Don  Pedro,  on  whom  he  bestowed  a  liberal  edu- 
cation, and  for  whom  he  subsequently  obtained  a  post 
in  the  Health  Office  at  Madrid.  In  this  city  the  young 
Pedro,  who  was  left  in  a  measure  his  own  master  at  the 
early  age  of  nineteen,  formed  connexions  which  deeply 
implicated  his  own  future  peace  and  that  of  his  family. 
He  was  of  a  generous  disposition,  but  weak-minded  in 
many  respects,  and  easily  biassed  by  the  arts  of  design- 
ing persons.  The  half-medical  character  of  Don  Pedro's 
employment  brought  him  into  intimate  acquaintance 
with  most  of  the  principal  physicians  and  apothecaries 
of  Madrid,  and  with  their  families.  Among  others  whom 
he  met  in  this  circle  was  Donna  Catalina,  the  widow  of 
an  eminent  chemist  who  had  been  banished  to  Africa 
for  participating  in  some  political  conspiracies,  and  who 
had,  it  seems,  died  in  exile.  At  the  period  of  her  hus- 
band's banishment,  Donna  Catalina  was  very  young,  but 
her  character  had  already  fully  developed  itself;  and 
what  that  character  was,  may  be  in  part  imagined  from 
the  confession  which  her  husband  made  to  some  friends 
before  his  departure,  ''that  his  sentence  was  endurable, 


284  ROMA^-CE    IN    REAL    LIFE. 

because  it  freed  him  from  the  bonds  of  his  imperious 
helpmate." 

Donna  Catalina  was  considerably  under  her  thirtieth 
year,  and  yet  very  beautiful,  when  she  became  acquaint- 
ed with  Don  Pedro  de  Balboa.  Her  wit  and  charms 
fascinated  the  young  Andalusian,  and  she,  in  her  turn, 
formed  for  him  a  deep  and  ardent  passion.  In  Catalina's 
disengaged  and  widowed  state,  there  was  no  obstacle  to 
the  formation  of  a  matrimonial  alliance  between  them, 
and  in  all  likelihood  a  marriage  would  have  ensued,  but 
for  the  discovery  which  Balboa  made  of  Catalina's  vio- 
lent and  intolerable  temper.  Still,  after  the  advances 
he  had  made,  he  could  not  easily  give  up  his  imperious 
beauty.  She  had  acquired  a  power  over  him,  and  he 
feared  to  dare  the  outburst  of  her  passion.  At  length 
he  found  the  means  of  withdrawing  himself  His  father 
sent  an  express  order  for  his  return  without  delay,  and 
as  this  injunction  could  not  be  disobeyed,  or  trifled  with, 
Pedro  tore  himself  away  from  the  company  of  Catalina, 
and  returned  to  the  paternal  mansion. 

When  Don  Pedro  reached  his  father's  house,  he  found 
that  the  old  merchant  had  become  anxious  (probably 
from  having  heard  of  the  state  of  matters  in  Madrid) 
that  his  son  should  marry  and  settle  in  life.  He  had 
even  provided  a  match  for  the  youth,  in  the  person  of  a 
young  and  lovely  cousin,  whom  Don  Pedro,  at  the  peri- 
od of  his  return,  found  resident  in  his  father's  family. 
Nor  was  Pedro  long  in  becoming  captivated  with  the 
simple  and  amiable  character  of  his  young  relation,  so 
unlike  that  of  the  enchantress  who  had  formerly  en- 
thralled him.     Every  thing,  in  short,  went  on  as  the  fa- 


ROMAxNCE    IN    REAL    LIFE.  285 

ther  wished.  But,  meanwhile,  the  deserted  Catalina, 
alarmed  at  the  prolonged  absence  of  her  lover,  wrote 
him  letter  upon  letter,  reproaching  him  with  his  appa- 
rent infidelity,  and  urging  him,  in  the  strongest  and 
most  passionate  terms,  to  return  to  Madrid.  By  degrees, 
the  tone  of  her  letters  changed  from  reproach  to  men- 
ace, and  the  conclusion  of  one  of  these  epistles  ran 
thus  :  —  "  Yes,  traitor  !  1  now  know  why  you  went  to 
Andalusia,  and  I  know  why  you  remained  there  so  long." 
Alluding  to  Don  Pedro's  cousin,  she  then  continues, 
**But  beware  !  for,  with  the  aid  of  the  blessed  Virgin, 
I  will  kill  her,  then  I  will  kill  you,  and,  lastly,  I  will  kill 
myself!"  She  then,  with  the  same  inconsistency  of 
spirit  w^hich  other  parts  of  the  letter  betray,  commends 
her  lover  to  divine  guardianship,  and  signs  "  Catalina." 
This  effusion  fell  by  accident  into  the  hands  of  Don 
Pedro's  father,  who  opened  it  by  mistake,  and  thus  be- 
came fully  acquainted  with  the  serious  nature  of  the 
ties  which  his  son  had  contracted  at  Madrid,  of  which 
he  was,  perhaps,  but  in  part  aware.  The  result  was, 
that  the  old  man,  desirous  that  his  son  should  be  extri- 
cated from  the  connexion,  fully,  as  well  as  honorably, 
wrote  to  Donna  Catalina,  informing  her  of  his  son's  in- 
tended marriage  with  his  own  cousin,  and  offering  at 
the  same  time  to  settle  on  his  correspondent  a  respecta- 
ble annuity,  if  she  would  pledge  herself  to  abstain  from 
seeking  any  further  correspondence  with  Don  Pedro. 

The  proud  and  passionate  Catalina  returned  no  an- 
swer to  this  proposal,  nor  did  she  again  write  to  Don 
Pedro.  Hoping  that  his  letter  had  made  her  give  up  all 
thoughts  of  the  matter,  the  old  merchant  hurried  on  the 

X 


286  ROMANCE    IN    REAL,    LIFE. 

inatcli  between  the  cousins  ;  and,  with  tliat  pliability 
which  formed  a  prominent  part  of  his  nature,  Pedro, 
also,  was  perfectly  willing  to  have  the  marriage  com- 
pleted. Accordingly,  a  dispensation  from  the  church 
(necessary  on  account  of  the  consanguinity  of  the  par- 
ties) was  obtained,  and  the  connubial  ceremony  was  fix- 
ed for  an  early  day^  When  that  day  came,  the  rites  of 
the  church  were  performed,  and  its  blessing  pronounced 
upon  Pedro  and  his  bride  —  in  peace.  But  the  parties 
had  scarcely  left  the  altar,  when  a  fearful  and  lamenta- 
ble catastrophe  took  place.  The  newly  married  lady 
was  just  leaving  the  portico  of  the  church,  when  she 
was  met  by  some  young  ladies  of  her  acquaintance,  who 
presented  her  with  a  nosegay.  She  blushed  at  this  mark 
of  attention,  and  raised  the  flowers  to  her  face  ;  but  she 
had  inhaled  their  perfume  but  fur  a  very  short  time, 
when  she  instantly  fell  back  a  corpse  in  the  arms  of  her 
husband.  All  attempts  to  recover  her  proved  ineffect- 
ual—  she  was  dead  !  The  nosegay  must  have  been  poi- 
soned. It  was  sought  for  everywhere,  but  it  had  van- 
ished ;  in  the  first  moment  of  confusion  it  had  been  en- 
tirely forgotten. 

The  young  ladies  who  had  presented  the  flowers  were 
fifst  examined.  They  related  that  they  had  received  the 
nosegay  from  a  stranger,  who  was  to  have  accompanied 
them,  but  who  had  failed  to  keep  her  promise.  Then 
did  the  father  of  Pedro  recollect  the  menaces  of  Cata- 
lina.  Eager  to  avenge  his  neice's  death,  he  applied  to 
the  ministers  of  justice,  and  had  Catalina  brought  from 
Madrid.  She  was  confronted  with  the  young  ladies, 
and  they  all  recognized  her  as  the  person  from  whom 


ROMANCE    IN    RF.AL    LIFE.  287 

they  liad  received  the  fatal  nosegay.     Catalina,  on  her 
part,  declared  that  she  had  not  left   Madrid,  and   nu- 
merous witnesses  were  brought  forward  to  confirm  her 
statement.     The  report  of  the  medical  men  tended  to 
make  the  affair  yet  more  complicated.     They  declared 
that,  on   opening  the  body,  they  had  not  found  in  the 
organs  of  respiration  any  trace  of  the  action  of  poison. 
The  brain  they  had  found  strongly  injected  ;  but  though 
such  an   alteration   might  have  been  caused  by  violent 
narcotics,  it  was  also  possible  that  it  might  have  been 
the  effect  of  sudden  apoplexy.     Some  of  the  physicians 
denied  the  possibility  of  poisoning  so  suddenly  by  means 
of  a  nosegay.     The  hydrocyanic  acid,  they  said,  could 
alone  operate  with  such  violence,  but  would  have  lost 
its  power  if  exposed  for  several  minutes  to  the  air  ;  be- 
sides which,  this,  as  well  as  several  other  poisons  that 
they  enumerated,  would  have  been  sure  to  leave  a  trace 
behind.     Other  physicians,  on  the  contrary,  maintained 
that  we  are  but  imperfectly  acquainted  in  Europe  with 
the  science  of  poisons,  in  which  the  Orientals,  and  even 
some  savage  nations,  had  made  much  greater  advances. 
The  consequence  of  these  contradictory  reports,  and  the 
positive  evidence  adduced  that  she  had  not  quitted  Ma- 
drid, was,  that  Catalina  was  ordered  to  be  set  at  liberty. 
While  in  prison,  she  addressed  several  letters  to  Don 
Pedro.     "  My  affection  for  you  (she  wrote)  is  the  only 
cause  of  the  persecution  to  which  I  have  been  exposed. 
I  am  innocent,  I  am  innocent! — but  had  I  ever  been 
guilty,  it  would  only  have  been  because  I  loved  you  too 
\\c\\ ;  surely  you  will  not  forsake  me  !  "     Whatever  may 
have  been  his  motive,  Don  Pedro,  it  seems,  visited  her 


288  ROMANCE    IN    REAL    LIFE. 

while  in  prison,  and  she  succeeded  in  resuming  her  an- 
cient influence  over  him.  Not  satisfied  with  this  proof 
of  her  power,  slie  succeeded,  on  her  liberation,  in  in- 
volving him  in  a  law-suit  with  the  family  of  his  deceased 
bride,  and  was  on  the  point  of  persuading  him  to  return 
with  her  to  Madrid,  when  his  father  once  more  inter- 
fered, and,  by  a  vigorous  exertion  df'parental  authority, 
prevailed  on  Don  Pedro  once  mor.e'to  abandon  all  ideas 
of  marrying  her.  Catalina  found  an  opportunity  that 
very  day  to  enter  the  merchant's  house,  and  the  apart- 
ment of  her  vacillating  lover.  She  played  off  all  her 
arts  of  seduction,  but  in  vain,  for  this  time  Don  Pedro 
proved  firm  in  his  purpose.  Gradually  giving  way  to 
the  violence  of  her  passion,  ''Dastard  !  "  she  exclaimed- 
"  you  allow  yourself  to  be  fooled  by  the  words  of  a  silly 
old  man  ;  but  do  nojt  fancy  that  I  am  to  be  outraged  with 
impunity  !  I  have 'not  yet  forgotten  how  to  take  venge- 
ance on  those  th^t  insult  me  !  Know  't  was  I  that  killed 
your  bride,  and'^you  also  shall  die  !  " 

As  she  said  this,  she  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and  it 
was  not  wiLliout  a  feeling  of  dread  that  he  contemplated 
the  altered  countenance  of  the  fury.  He  perceived  that 
she  had  between  her  fingers  a  pin  that  she  had  drawn 
from  her  hair.  He  had  scarcely  noticed  this  movement 
when  he  felt  himself  pricked  in  the  arm.  "  I  have  killed 
the^e ! "  she  exclaimed,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room, 
flinging  away  the  pin  with  which  she  had  inflicted  the 
>  wound.  Don  Pedro  almost  immediately  felt  his  head  grow 

'    Jieavy,  and  his  sight  dim  :  he  uttered  a  few  faint  cries ; 

/but  before  he  had  time  to  say  a  prayer,  he  fell  senseless 
to  the  ground.     The  servants  heard  the  fall,  and  hasten- 


ROMANCE    IN    REAL    LIFE.  289 

ed  to  the  room.  A  physician  was  sent  for,  who  suc- 
ceeded in  recallinor  him  to  life.  Don  Pedro  related 
what  had  happened.  The  pin  was  sought  for  and  found, 
and,  on  a  chemical  analysis,  some  traces  were  discover- 
ed on  it  of  the  juice  of  a  certain  subtile  poison  in  which 
the  native  hunters  of  Spanish  America  used  formerly  to 
dip  their  arrows,  to  enable  them  to  kill  their  game  the 
more  speedily.  The  poisoned  weapon  had  passed 
through  the  several  folds  of  Balboa's  dress,  by  which 
means,  probably,  a  part  of  the  venom  had  been  rubbed 
off,  for  he  recovered  in  a  short  time.  Catalina,  on  be- 
ing brought  before  the  Alcades  del  Crimen,  not  only 
avowed  her  crimes,  but  added,  that  her  failure  was  the 
only  circumstance  that  she  regretted.  She  was  ccn-"-^ 
demned  to  the  scaffold,  and  met  ner  death  with  firmness. 
Her  husband's  skill  as  a  chemist  had  of  course  given 
her  the  opportunity  of  acquiring  that  knowledge  of  poi- 
sons which  ultimately  caused  her  own  end. 

This  tale  is  taken  Avithout  the  slightest  change  of 
facts,  from  the  records  of  the  criminal  courts  of  Seville, 
where  the  trial  of  the  unfortunate  and  guilty  lady  took 
place  but  a  few  years  since.  However  marvellous  some 
of  the  circumstances  may  appear,  there  can  be-no  doubt 
of  the  veracity  of  the  relation,  though  it  is  possible  that 
Catalina,  in  compassing  her  rival's  death,  may  have,  con- 
trived secretly  to  conjoin  more  common-place  and  effec- 
tual means  with  those  to  which  the  catastrophe  is  here 
ascribed,  and  was  ostensibly  owing.  N 

X  ^  -^ 


\ 


\ 


290 


JENNY  AND  THE  WATCIL 


In  some  of  the  country  parts  of  Scotland,  a  custom 
prevails  of  young  men  giving  their  watches  in  trust  to 
young  women  for  Vv'hom  they  have  declared  their  attacli- 
ment.  The  watch  is  kept  and  carried  in  the  bosom  of 
the  fair  one,  until  the  anxious  couple  are  united  in  the 
bonds  of  wedlock,  when,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  pledge 
of  sincerity  is  delivered  up  to  its  original  owner.  This 
is  imagined  by  country  lasses  to  be  an  iniinitely  better 
plan  for  securing  the  fidelity  of  a  svv-eetheart,  than  that 
of  breaking  a  sixpence.  A  watch  is  a  valuable  and 
highly  prized  article.  It  is  worth  at  least  a  couple  of 
pounds;  and  the  loss  of  that  sum  by  an  individual  in  a 
humble  condition  of  life,  is  a  very  serious  matter.  Still 
we  believe  tliere  arc  cases  in  which  the  proposed  match 
is  broken  off,  and  the  watch  abandoned  for  ever  ;  though 
doubtless  this  is  only  in  cases  of  great  fickleness,  or 
when  weighty  reasons  for  desertion  intervene. 

The  follovv'ing  laughable  incident  regarding  a  uTitch  so 
entrusted,  occurred  a  few  years  ago.  Jenny  Symington, 
a  well-favored  sprightly  girl,  in  a  certain  farm-house  in 
Galloway,  had  been  entrusted  with  t'le  watch  of  her 
sweetheart,  Tarn  llalliday,  a  neighboring  shepiierd,  and 
which  she  carried  with  scrupulous  care  in  her  bosom  ; 
but  even  the  most  carefully  kept  articles  will  sometimes 
disappear,  in  spite  of  all  the  precautions  considered  neces. 


jr.\NY    AND    THE    WATCFl.  291 

sary  to  preserve  tlicm.  Jenny,  be  it  known,  was  es- 
teemed a  first-rate  hand  at  preparing  potatoes  for  the 
fiimily  supper ;  none  could  excel  her  in  serving  them  up 
beaten  and  mashed  in  the  most  tempting  style.  On  one 
occasion,  in  harvest,  when  the  kitchen  was  crowded 
with  a  number  of  shearers  waiting  for  their  evening  meal, 
and  while  Jenny  was  busy  beating  a  mess  of  potatoes, 
wdiat  did  the  unlucky  watch  do,  but  drop  from  her  bosom, 
chain,  seals,  and  all,  into  the  pot  among  the  potatoes  ! 
Jenny's  head  being  turned  away  at  the  moment,  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  disaster,  and  therefore  continued  to 
beat  on  and  at  her  task.  She  certainly  was  a  little  sur- 
prised when  she  felt  there  was  still  a  hard  potatoe  to 
beat,  notwithstanding  her  previous  diligence ;  but  think- 
ing nothing  of  it,  she  continued  to  beat,  occasionally 
giving  the  hard  potatoe,  alias  the  watch,  a  good  thump 
with  the  end  of  the  beetle.  At  length  she  thought  she 
had  fairly  completed  the  business :  and  so  infusing  a 
large  jar  of  sv/eet  milk  into  the  mess,  she  stirred  all  to- 
gether, and  placed  the  vessel  ready  for  ihe  attack  of  the 
hungry  on-lookers. 

Behold  then  the  pot,  a  round  clumsy  tripod,  planted 
in  tlic  middle  of  the  floor.  A  circle  was  formed  around 
it  in  a  trice,  and  horn  for  horn  the  shearers  began 
to  stretch  and  strive.  Many  mouthfuls  had  not  been 
taken,  before  certain  queer  looks  began  to  be  manifest- 
ed. "  Deil  's  in  the  tatties  !  "  says  one,  "  I  think  they  've 
got  banes  in  them."  "  Banes  !  "  says  another,  "  they  're 
the  funniest  banes  ever  I  saw  ;  they  're  made  of  broken 
glass  and  pieces  o'  brass;  I'll  sup  nae  mair  o' them." 
With  that  another  produced  a  silver  watch-case,  all  bat- 


292  JEIS^Y    AND    THE    WATCH. 

tered  and  useless,  from  his  capacious  horn  spoon,  and  a 
universal  strike  among  the  suppers  immediately  ensued. 
It  was  clear  that  a  watch  had  been  beaten  up  with  the 
potatoes  ;  so  the  good  wife  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  or- 
der the  disgraced  pot  out  of  the  way,  and  to  place  a  bas- 
ket of  oatmeal  cakes  and  milk  in  its  stead. 

What  were  poor  Jenny's  feelings  during  this  strange 
denouement  ?  On  the  first  appearance  of  the  fragments 
of  the  watch,  she  slipped  her  hand  to  her  bosom,  and 
soon  found  how  matters  stood.  She  had  the  fortitude, 
however,  to  show  no  symptom  of  surprise  ;  and  although 
every  one  was  wondering  where  the  broken  watch  had 
come  from,  she  did  not  disclose  her  knowledge  of  how 
it  had  found  its  way  into  the  pot.  As  it  had  belonged  to 
no  one  in  the  house,  the  materials  were  not  identified, — 
and  as  Jenny  was  a  young  woman  of  great  prudence 
and  modesty,  and  had  never  shown  any  one  that  she  had 
a  watch  in  her  possession,  no  one  teased  her  about  it. 
In  a  short  time  the  noise  of  the  circumstance  died 
away,  but  not  till  it  had  gone  over  the  neighborhood 
that  the  family  had  found  a  watch  in  the  potato-pot ;  — 
and,  among  others,  it  came  to  the  ears  of  the  owner. 
Tarn  Halliday,  who  was  highly  pleased  with  the  conduct 
of  his  beloved  Jenny  ;  for  he  thought  that  if  she  cried  or 
sobbed,  and  told  to  whom  the  watch  belonged,  it  would 
have  brought  ridicule  on  them  both.  Tam  was,  in  short, 
delighted  with  the  way  the  matter  had  been  managed, 
and  he  thought  that  the  watch  was  well  lost,  though  it 
had  been  ten  times  the  value. 

Whatever  Tarn's  ideas  were  on  the  subject,  Jenny 


JENNY    AND    THE    WATCH.  29.3 

felt  conscious  that  it  was  her  duty  to  replace  the  watch. 
Accordingly,  next  time  she  met  her  lover,  she  allowed 
no  time  to  elapse  before  she  thus  addressed  him  :  — 
*'Now,  Tarn,  ye  ken  very  weel  how  I  have  demolished 
your  good  silver  watch,  but  it  is  needless  to  regret  what 
cannot  be  helped.  I  shall  pay  you  for  it,  every  farthing. 
The  one  half  I  will  give  you  when  I  get  my  half-year's 
wages,  at  Marti'mas,  and  the  other  half  soon,  as  my 
brother  is  awn  me  three  pounds,  which  he  has  promised 
to  pay  me  afore  the  next  Fastern's  e'en  fair."  "  My 
dear  Jenny,"  said  the  young  man,  taking  her  kindly  by 
the  hand,  "  I  beg  you  will  say  nothing  about  that  ridicu- 
lous affair.  I  do  not  care  a  farthing  for  the  loss  of  the 
watch  ;  mair  by  token,  I  have  gotten  a  rise  in  my  wages 
frae  the  new  lord  ;  for  I  maun  tell  ye,  I  am  now  ap- 
pointed chief  herd  in  the  Ca's  Hope.  However,  to  take 
any  payment  from  you,  to  rob  you  of  your  hard-won 
penny-fee,  would  be  disgraceful.  No,  no,  I  will  take 
none  of  your  wages  ;  but  there  is  one  thing  I  will  take, 
if  you  are  willing,  and  which,  I  hope,  will  make  us 
baith  happy  for  life."  "  And  what  may  that  be,  Tam, 
now  that  ye  're  turned  a  grand  head  shepherd?"  "  I 
will  take,"  said  he,  "  yourself;  but  mind,  I  do  not  ask 
you  as  a  recompense  for  a  paltry  watch  ;  no,  in  my  eyes 
your  worth  is  beyond  all  estimation.  If  you  will  agree 
to  be  mine,  let  it  be  done  freely ;  but  whether  you  are 
willing  to  marry  me  or  not,  from  this  time  henceforth 
the  watch  is  never  to  be  more  spoken  of." 

What  followed  may  be  easily  imagined.  Tam  and 
Jenny  were  married  as  soon  as  the  plenishing  for  the 
cottage  at  the  Ca's  Hope  could  be  prepared  ;   and  at  the 


294 


JENNY    AND    THE    WATCH. 


wedding,  the  story  of  tlie  watch  and  the  potato-pot  was 
made  the  topic  of  much  hearty  mirth  among  the  assem- 
bled company.  The  last  time  we  visited  Jenny's  cot- 
tage, we  reminded  her  of  the  transaction.  "  Houts," 
said  she,  "  that 's  an  auld  story  now ;  the  laird  has  been 
sae  weel  pleased  w  i'  the  gudeman,  that  he  has  gien  him 
a  present o'  that  eight-day  clock  there;  it  cost  eight 
pounds  in  Jamie  Lockie's,  at  the  east  port  o'  Dumfries, 
and  there  's  no  the  like  in  a'  the  parish." 


295 


STANZAS  FOR  EVENING. 

There  is  an  hour  when  leaves  are  still,  and  winds  sleep  on  the 

wave  ; 
When  far  beneath  the   closing  clouds  the   day  hath  found  a 

grave  ; 
And  stars  that  at  the  note  of  dawn  begin  their  circling  flight, 
Return,  like  sun-tired  birds,  to  seek  the  sable  boughs  of  night. 

The  curtains  of  the  mind  are  closed,  and  slumber  is  most  sweet, 
And  visions  to  the  hearts  of  men  direct  their  fairy  feet ; 
The  wearied  wing  hath  gain'd  a  tree,  pain  sighs  itself  to  rest, 
And  beauty's  bridegroom  lies  upon  the  pillow  of  her  breast. 

There  is  a  feeling  in  that  hour  which  tumult  ne'er  hath  known, 
Which  nature  seems  to  dedicate  to  silent  things  alone  ; 
The  spirit  of  the  lonely  wakes,  as  rising  from  the  dead, 
And  finds  its  shroud  adorn'd  with  flowers,  its  night-lamp  new- 
ly fed. 

The  mournful  moon  her  rainbows  hath,  and  mid  the  bright  of  all 
That  garlands  life,  some  blossoms  live,  like  lilies  on  a  pall ; 
Thus  while  to  lone   affliction's  couch  some  stranger-joy  may 

come. 
The  bee  that  hoardeth  sweets  all  day  hath  sadness  in  its  hum. 

Yet  some  there  are  whose  fire  of  years  leaves  no  rcmember'd 

spark. 
Whose  summer-time  itself  is  black,  whose  very  daybreak  dark. 
The  stem,  though  naked,  still  may  live,  the  leaf  though  perish'd 

cling  ; 
But  if  at  firot  the  root  be  cleft,  it  lies  a  branchless  thing. 


29G  STANZAS    FOR    EVENING. 

And  oh  !  to  such,  long,  hallow'd   nights  their  patient  music 

send  ; 
The  hours  like   drooping  angels  walk,  more  graceful  as  they 

bend  ; 
And  stars  emit  a  hope-like  ray,  that  melts  as  it  comes  nigh. 
And  nothing  in  that  calm  hath  life  that  doth  not  wish  to  die. 


{ .  3.wv^i.'4^^-^-  ^^  ic*-^ '  i*^!  i  ^ 


n^vxA^/i.^^-'W'— « 


^  I 


M71204 


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